Once Upon a Time, There Was a Murder?
by KitKatt20
Summary: When Shawn goes undercover at a Renaissance Fair to investigate the supposed murder of a jousting knight, the killer could be anybody. Can Shawn and Gus find the murderer, and provide enough proof to put them behind bars?
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue -- Santa Barbara, 1989**

"This is stupid!" Shawn mumbled, throwing down his pencil on the table. He leaning back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest and watched dismally as the pencil rolled off the table and onto the floor.

Henry looked up from the evening's newspaper, pausing midway in his venture to take a gulp of coffee. If he knew anything about his son, it was that whatever he was about to say, it would involve some sort of complaining or pleading in order to weasel his way out of the act of finishing his homework that night. A venture that would prove useless, if he had anything to say about it. For now, though, he decided to humor him. "And what, exactly, is so stupid, Shawn?" he asked, setting his paper down and looking across the table toward him.

"This story!" Shawn cried, tapping the half-written paper in front of him as if to prove a point. "Romeo and Juliet? Come on! I could think up better stories in my sleep." He pushed his English book away from him defiantly in another attempt to flaunt his unrest.

Henry had to hold back a taunting smile before it could spread across his features. Instead, he reached forward and pulled the book toward him, flipping through the pages before looking up at his son again. "You could, could you?" he said nonchalantly, still beating around the bush to see what kind of argument Shawn could come up with, and whether it was worth discussing at all.

"Of course! Instead of 'star cross'd lovers' I'd have dragons, knights and castles. That's what people want to read. Not some depressing story about two people killing themselves over 'the power of love.' Pff."

Henry could do nothing but shake his head at his son's response. "And this has nothing to do with you watching Conan the Barbarian for the eighth time this afternoon?"

Shawn paused. "No," he replied, resisting the urge to glance at the TV where the movie was paused at the ending credits. The seasoned police officer before him could tell he was lying through his teeth.

Henry sighed and got up from his chair, pushing the book back toward Shawn and turning it to the first page. "First of all, Shawn, this is a play, not some fantasy story that you can just pick up and immediately understand. There are certain elements Shakespeare conveys that no ordinary work of fiction could even begin to elaborate on. Second, the world you're describing doesn't even relate to the setting of Romeo and Juliet. Why would there be dragons in a love story?"

"But there was a sword fight and everything!" Shawn feebly countered, glaring at the painting of the two lovers in his book.

"Yes, there was. And why were they fighting?"

"Um..." Shawn muttered, frowning as he realized he had fallen right into his father's trap. "Love."

"Exactly," Henry said, leaning down and picking up his pencil off the floor. He handed it to Shawn and pushed his chair closer to the table. "Now finish your essay, and no killer robot doodles in the corner like last time." He picked up his newspaper and coffee cup and headed into the living room.

Shawn looked down at his paper, his frown developing into a scowl as he leaned over and began to write with more force than necessary.

"At least Arnold Schwarzenegger did it with style.."

**Present-- Santa Barbara, 2010**

Shawn Spencer was a man of simple tastes. He enjoyed the mantra of 80s movies, obscure jokes and water balloon fights as much as the next person.

So it's only logical that when the opportunity came to play dress up, he was the first in line.

"Gus! Hurry up! They're about to open the gates!" Shawn yelled, pacing in front of the covered dressing room stall.

"I can't believe you talked me into this, Shawn." A disgruntled voice came from within the stall, followed by some stumbling and muted cursing.

"Pff. It's only for one day. You've been coming here forever and this is the first time you tell me you can _rent_ costumes?" The faux psychic chuckled, knocking against the wood in an attempt to hurry his best friend along.

"I have _not_ been coming here forever, Shawn. You're the one who brought me along. I don't even like these festivals."

"This coming from the man who cried for three days after hearing Heath Ledger died."

"What? He was great actor, you can't deny it. Besides, what does that have to do with anything?" Gus replied, futilely trying to defend himself against Shawn's persistent taunts.

"Dude, you've seen _A Knights Tale_ like, 27 times. It's not hard to piece together the reason why you come here every year," Shawn said nonchalantly, bouncing on the balls of his feet and debating whether he should just leave Gus to his own devices and just sprint toward the gates, where they were starting to let the crowd in.

There was some more fumbling inside the stall before the reply came. "I do _not_ come here every year. Why do you care that I express an interest in the Italian Renaissance?"

"We've already been through this at Tri-Con, Gus. There's a certain--" Shawn stopped when he saw Gus step out of the stall, clad in a jaded green tunic and pants, with a hat to go with it. He had to clamp down on his lip to stop his initial response of laughing out loud. "What are you, Peter Pan?"

Gus looked down at his outfit and then glared at Shawn, adjusting his hat. "I'm Robin Hood."

"What? The men in tights version?"

"Stop it, Shawn. You know you took the only last good costume on the rack. I had very limited options to choose from," Gus shot back.

Shawn looked down at his own costume, smirking as he did so. He did look very good, if he said so himself. His outfit consisted of a whole suit of shiny plate armor and chain mail, similar to the ones worn at a jousting tournament. "Well, this probably the _only_ time I'm ever going to be coerced into attending a Renaissance Faire, so why not go all out? Anyway, come on. We're going to miss it."

The unlikely duo made their way toward the front gates, where the crowd had managed to dwindle down to a manageable few. They gave the attendants their tickets and headed inside. Shawn seemed somewhat intrigued by the different outfitted people around them, stopping occasionally to ogle certain scantily clad women and stare at odd street signs advertising some of the weirdest food he'd ever seen or heard of in years.

"A Scottish Egg? What the heck is that? Since when is an Egg of Scottish origin? Do the chickens come from Scotland?"

Gus knew even trying to answer that question would only bring about a slew of new ones, so he kept quiet and continued their trek toward the jousting stadium, where distant cheers and shouts could be heard. He knew the layout of this place a lot better than Shawn, who was struggling to keep up, not being able to resist the oddities that surrounded him.

They managed to find seats in the stadium near the front, after pestering a group of teenagers who were taking up a whole row by laying down. They were just in time too, because just as they sat down a booming voice surrounding the stadium, announcing the start of the event.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Milords and Miladies! Put your hands together for your champion and renowned knight, Sir Mitchell Williams!" The crowd cheered as a rugged man on a white steed trotted into the stadium, brandishing his lance for all to see and generating even more of an uproar.

"Mitchell Williams? Really?" Shawn scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why can't they have better names? Like Tak the Dragonslayer, or Bartholomew the Merciless, or Moe the Flatulent?"

"Moe the Flatulent?" Gus asked, giving Shawn a pointed look.

"Well, I didn't say they were all _good_," Shawn replied, pausing for a moment as he heard the next name being called. "Now _that's_ a name," he announced to Gus when another knight by the name of Rhys MacIntire was called into the stadium, galloping along on a black horse. The two knights faced each other and gave a bow, before turning and heading toward their respective posts at each end of the field. Shawn blinked as he saw one of the many hooded servants on the field adjust something with Rhys' lance before handing it to him, but then he just shrugged as the horn blew signaling the start of the first round.

The horses started off at a trot and then gradually gained speed as they neared each other. The knights atop them raised their lances and then lowered them to point at chest level. Gus was cheering loudly beside him along with the rest of the crowd. Shawn himself had to admit he was interested to see the outcome of the joust, even though he knew it was all fake.

A resounding crash was heard throughout the stadium as the two knights met at the middle with their lances. There seemed to be a long silence as they watched the one named Mitchell get propelled off his horse and onto the ground, splinters from the lance raining down on him. Rhys managed to stay on his horse and gave a victory gallop around the stadium as he was greeted with more cheers.

"Damn! That Rhys dude must be really good! He unhorsed him in one blow!" Gus said excitedly, until he saw Shawn's hardened look and frowned. He followed his best friend's gaze to Mitchell, who was still on the ground and beginning to be surrounded by attendants on the field. The cheers died down to a whisper and they watched with breathless anticipation as one of the servants turned the knight onto his back.

There was a collective gasp around the crowd, and then a scream. A bright red color could be seen tainting the bright armor the knight wore before it was covered quickly by one of the attendees. The damage had already been done however, loud voices and shouts surrounded them, and not of the cheering kind.

Sir Mitchell Williams was dead.


	2. Chapter 2

The Santa Barbara Police Station was in a state of chaos.

Forget the fact that there were dozens of cases yet to be solved in the beach-side city; the entire police force was focused on one thing that afternoon: herding and trying to control a crowd of around two hundred people dressed in fairy and princess costumes. Every one of the fair-goers who managed to be a witness to the not-yet-proclaimed-but-still-being-considered murder were bunched up around the station in every space imaginable. Needless to say, it was making movement very restricted and many officers very near their breaking point.

One particular detective though, had already reached his limit.

After being forced to endure several minutes of endless dribble over what the best strategy was to win a game of Dungeons and Dragons, Detective Carlton Lassiter stood up abruptly from his desk, which was now being surrounded by a pack of giggling teenagers trying to pass as wood nymphs. He marched right over to the Chief's office, and, despite the closed door that clearly said 'STAY OUT', walked in while asking a question he desperately needed answered in barely-held-back irritation.

"Chief, do you know exactly _when_ we're going to start getting these witness statements? These people are-" The head detective stopped and groaned as he spotted two of his least favorite people sitting in the chairs in front of the Chief's desk, wearing the most ridiculous outfits he'd ever seen. Of course, he shouldn't be surprised. Shawn always got caught up in the weirdest of cases, and _still_ managed to solve them. "What the hell is Spencer doing here?" He ventured to say instead, walking fully into the room and closing the door behind him, effectively drowning out the racket outside.

"Lassie!" Shawn cried in his annoyingly cheerful voice, turning to him as he stepped in. "So nice of you to join us. I was just telling the Chief here about our horrifying experience at the Fair!"

"You two were witnesses?" Lassiter asked, his gaze lingering on their outfits again, particularly Gus's. He assumed the two had just dressed up for the occasion; to take advantage of the fiasco in order to score a lead into another case.

"I actually prefer the term 'rubberneckers', but yes, we were," Shawn said proudly, much to Lassiter's chagrin.

"I was just asking Mr. Spencer here whether he could sense anything about the... incident," the chief explained, calmly sifting through papers on her desk.

"Why? It's pretty obvious that this was premeditated murder, everyone saw it!"

"Oh, Lassie, have you learned nothing since your cameo on _Explocion Gigantesca de Romancè_?" Shawn said with his particular flourish when it came to speaking Spanish. "Why would someone outright kill someone in front of an entire audience?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Spencer, but unless you can prove otherwise, Mr. MacIntire is the prime suspect in a murder investigation," Vick told the psychic casually, motioning outside the door where a few police officers were escorting the unfortunate knight down to the holding cells in handcuffs. The look on Shawn's face at the news really made Lassiter's day.

"What! But we haven't even seen a coroner's report yet!" Shawn whined, crossing his arms over his chest. Gus, too, looked disturbed at the news, standing up from his chair to exchange glances between the two briefly.

"I've got it right here."

A new voice interjected and the group turned to see Juliet walk into the room with the report in her hand, quickly closing the door behind her. She stopped, however, when she saw Shawn's attire. "What are you wearing?" she asked cautiously, not sure whether to laugh or smile at his appearance.

Shawn's demeanor considerably brightened when Juliet entered the room. "Jules! Haven't you ever seen a knight in shining armor before?" Shawn responded, involuntarily puffing his chest out a little bit. Then, his eyes narrowed as he seemed to get an idea.

"But, soft! what light-"

"Shawn, please don't start quoting Romeo and Juliet. I've been the brunt of those lines ever since I can remember," Juliet reprimanded him, though she had to fight to stop a small smile from breaking across her features.

"Romeo and Juliet? No! I wouldn't even think of it!" Shawn exclaimed after a short pause, folding his arms over his chest defensively. The three cops in his room didn't buy that act for a second. Lassiter didn't even make an attempt to hide the rolling of his eyes.

Gus just snickered and leaned forward, talking lowly to Shawn. "You've been waiting forever to say that line, haven't you?"

"Dude, you have no idea," Shawn whispered back, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"_Anyway_... we just received the coroner's report a minute ago. The victim died from extreme blood loss," Juliet continued, handing the file to him, effectively breaking Shawn out of his reverie.

According to the report, Mitchell Williams had sustained a large stab wound to the abdomen, severing one of the major arteries. This surprised Shawn, who assumed that the armor the knight wore would prove enough to withstand an impact from a wooden stick.

"The murder weapon _was_ the lance?" Shawn asked, a little confused. No way a blunt wooden instrument like that would cause such a significant wound, no matter how many splinters it was busted into.

"Forensics is still working on it, but it appears it was tampered with," Juliet cut in, pointing to one of the photos in the file that showed the broken lance. "There was some type of sharpened metal inside of it, almost like a type of knife."

Shawn perused the photo and his eyes narrowed as he spotted something rather peculiar toward the end of the lance, where it was mostly still intact. Hiding a smirk, he closed his eyes quickly and put a hand to his temple in his typical fashion. "I'm sensing something else is off about this lance. Where is it now?"

"It's stored in the evidence until they can dust it for other prints, but-"

"Ugh! Oh no!" Shawn cried suddenly, taking the photo and brandishing it in the air. "The spirits are guiding me! To the evidence locker! Charge!" he exclaimed, hurtling himself towards the door like he was being pulled by some unknown force. He stumbled through the crowd outside, drawing much attention to himself, as usual. Those remaining in the room shared a glance with each other before following the psychic.

After he reached his destination, Shawn stole a cursory glance around the locker and located the lance on one of the shelves before turning toward Vick, Juliet, Lassiter and Gus, who had just walked up. "The source of the corruption is here." he stated ominously, closing his eyes and heading into the room with his hand out, taking hold of the evidence bag the weapon was contained in and holding it up for them to see.

"What are we supposed to be looking for?" Lassiter asked with a bored tone, looking like he'd really rather be elsewhere.

Shawn opened his eyes and just grinned. The lance was roughly the length of his forearm, with the end of it broken into a jagged edge. From where he was looking at it, he could see a glint of rust-colored metal inside, almost indistinguishable since it match the shade the lance was.

"I apologize in advance for this," Shawn announced before grabbing the hilt of the weapon and swinging it, hard, at an edge of the shelf rack, breaking the lance further into little pieces.

"Spencer, what the hell are you doing?" Vick and Lassiter shouted in unison as they looked on helplessly after what he did.

Before they could criticize him any further, Shawn shoved the evidence bag in Lassiter's hand. "Just check it out."

Against his better judgment, the head detective looked down at the destroyed lance, his eyes narrowing as he spotted what Shawn wanted him to see. He held it up to eye level, his eyebrows furrowing. "Looks like some sort of... spring mechanism."

It was true. Inside the lance, there were a bunch of small loose coils, just barely able to fit inside the width of the weapon. It was much like a loose slinky, but from the looks of it, once coiled up, it had the potential to contain a lot of tension. A spring like that could definitely generate enough force to cause the metal to pierce through armor once it impacted with something.

"I'm sensing whoever tampered with that lance had to have had an extensive knowledge of physics and engineering to make that type of device. Knowledge way beyond that of a man parading as a knight twice a year," Shawn supplied, looking rather proud of himself at the find.

Chief Vick was silent for a moment as she observed the battered weapon. Finally, she sighed and turned to Shawn.

"Alright, Mr. Spencer, you're hired."

Shawn started to jump up in excitement, but was halted when the police chief held up a hand. "But know that the next time you knowingly compromise evidence, I won't hesitate throwing you in lockup," she spoke dangerously, watching the psychic cringe slightly before straightening and returning to her normal, not-so-threatening voice.

"Now, how do you propose we go about this, then?"

A small, mischievous smile spread across Shawn's face.


	3. Chapter 3

The fair was jam-packed with people the next morning, it was hardly believable that a possible murder had occurred.

The fact that the fair-goers and the workers seemed to show a relative indifference when it came to the discussion of the deceased knight drew up a question mark in the mind of one Shawn Spencer. It was a wonder why anyone was cheering for him at all when he came out onto the field that day, when it seemed that so many were harboring ill feelings toward the knight. Despite this, events continued as scheduled at the Fair. People still dressed up in their ridiculous costumes, cooks served their weird food and even jousting was set up to continue after only a one day reprieve to train their new recruits. Needless to say, one particular recruit was ecstatic to arrive at work that morning.

"I can't believe this, Shawn," Gus mumbled, following behind the psychic on their way to the pitch where training was about to start.

"Believe what? That Michael Douglas can handle aging really well when my dad can't?" Shawn said with a grin.

"I'm serious, Shawn! You get to go undercover as one of the knights while I have to sit and watch? It's unfair. I've always been more interested in the Renaissance than you," Gus said, trying to keep his statement logical, but he knew it sounded like he was whining.

"I'm serious, too, Gus! Have you seen that man's hair? Man, what I wouldn't give.." He paused when he caught Gus's glare and sighed. "Dude, the Chief made it very clear. There was only one spot left on the new jousting team. What kind of detective agency would we be if we didn't let the actual psychic do the undercover work?"

"You use that excuse for everything!"

"I do not!"

"Shawn, you used that same line when we were ordering smoothies last week and you told the barista that you needed a discount because you were the 'lead' investigator for a robbery across the street," Gus scolded.

"That's irrelevant, Gus. The point is… half off smoothies!" Shawn replied, looking at his best friend as if he were crazy for even bringing it up.

Gus was just about to retort but he stopped when they reached the gates to the jousting pitch, guarded by a rather bored-looking attendant. "One of you the new recruit?" he asked blandly.

"Yes, that's me. I'm Sir Tom Farrel, and this is my associate, Hans Gruber." Shawn introduced himself, giving a knightly bow. Oh, and his undercover name was totally Vick's decision. If Shawn had had the chance, he would've gone the James Bond route. He comforted himself with the fact that he could potentially be some long-lost brother to Colin Farrell, great hair and all.

Gus leaned over and whispered vehemently in his ear. "A Die Hard reference? Really?"

"Pff. Like you're not proud being compared to Alan Rickman."

Gus frowned, but didn't disagree with him. The guard gave them a look that was usually accompanied when they had their constant spats toward one another. "Yeah, whatever. You guys are late. They're about to start." He pushed open the gate he was standing in front of, allowing the two to enter.

Nodding a brief goodbye to the attendant, they both walked onto the field, which did seem a whole lot bigger when they were on the bottom level. The blood that must've contaminated the area where Williams died had been cleaned up, showing no indication of what had happened the previous day. A cluster of men in armor and a couple of horses were huddled at the end of the field. The duo quickly made their way toward them, catching a few snippets of conversation as they approached.

"-and Weaver will be the first to compete. We gotta see how good you guys are ontop of a horse." An older man with graying hair was instructing the group of trainees. "It's not like in the movies, kiddos, you gotta learn to guide your steed in a straight line _and_ balance a 5 pound lance in one hand while trying to hit your target. Morley, since you've been here longer you're going to be the one teaching Weaver."

"Santanova, you'll be with..." The man looked down at a clipboard, raising an eyebrow as he scoured the list of names. "...a Tom Farrel?"

"Me! That's me!" Shawn cried, jumping up and down in the back a crowd. Several sets of eyes turned to look at him oddly and he quickly stopped. The leader looked at him briefly before clearing his throat. "Yes. Alright, Farrel, you'll be with Santanova for the afternoon, he'll teach you the ropes until you get the hang of things."

Shawn turned to the man he was supposed to be working with. He was rather tall and well built, with black hair and a Fu Manchu-esque mustache. He very well looked like the villain out of an old western movie and not someone Shawn really looked forward to jousting against on a field. He gulped and walked over, extending a hand and greeting him, "Nice to meet ya."

Santanova grunted and shook his hand, nearly breaking his fingers in the process. Shawn tried to put on a strong face, but Gus could see right through his barrier and could tell that his friend didn't look nearly as excited as he did just a few minutes ago.

"Alright! Everyone not participating in practice, get your ass in the stands! Farrel, go to the corral and pick out a horse. Santanova will go with you." With that, the older man headed toward the two who were saddling their horses, Morley and Weaver.

Shawn gave Gus a pleading look as Santanova started to head toward the corral. All Gus could do was shrug uselessly and make his way toward the stands as instructed. The psychic sighed heavily and then hurried to catch up with his now current partner. On their way there, he tried to break the ice by getting the giant to talk a bit.

"So yeah, I was a little bit late to practice. Is there anyway you could tell me who everyone else was so I know not to address them by just naming obvious parts of their appearance?"

Okay, it wasn't the best way to break the ice, but Santanova's mustache so reminded him of Pancho Villa, just by the sheer weight his mustache had on his overall countenance. There was also the fact that he bared a remarkable resemblance to Carlos Santana. It took all of his willpower to not even mention these two things, for fear of being punted into oblivion.

Santanova didn't even glance at him, just continued looking forward. "The man talking earlier was the events coordinator, Nathaniel Grayson. The other new recruit here besides you is Patrick Weaver. Me and Morely have been here for several years, so I guess that's why I'm stuck with you."

Short, curt, to the point. Shawn could respect that. At least he got him to talk. He decided to prod forward. "Thank you. And what should I call you?"

"Just call me Nova. Everyone else does."

Shawn nodded, though he thought it was kind of weird to call someone by part of their last name. As they neared the corral, he decided this was an ideal time to do some actual investigating. "So, Nova, were you here when the... _incident_ happened yesterday?" He tried to sound as casual as possible, just making small talk. The police were keeping under wraps the whole 'murder' part of the investigation, just in case it would scare away any potential suspects if they knew the Fair was under investigation.

Nova grunted again in response. "Hmph, yeah, I was here. Me and Morely were supposed to go on after MacIntire and that bastard Williams."

"Wow, I've heard nothing but negative feedback about this Williams guy all afternoon. Was he really that bad?"

"You don't know the half of it. He was a recruit just like you, but after only one day he strutted around like he owned the place. Criticizing our jousting techniques, harassing the horses... It's a wonder he got the job in the first place." Nova shook his head, the thought of the man making him clench his fists. "I won't lie to you. I'm quite happy he's dead. If it had gone on much longer I probably would've throttled him myself."

Many a police officer's ears would've perked up at that last statement, but Shawn knew better. Many people shared Santanova's sentiments when it came to the not-so-chivalrous knight. Besides, he'd already ruled out most of the knights that were there that day, since they were all getting prepared for the event. The culprit most likely was someone from a different part of the Fair, or a visitor with very close connections to the staff. If that were the case, then there were a plethora of suspects to sift through.

It was the food critic case all over again. How do you find a murderer among hundreds who hated the victim already? Too bad this time he didn't have a lovely set of restaurant chains to choose from, and instead had a bunch of pissed off medieval buffs with plenty of pointy objects around them to commit their crime. He'd have to find some way to narrow down the suspect list, and fast.

A trumpet sounded in the distance and Shawn looked up to find Nova bringing a chestnut-colored horse out of the stable for him. He tossed the reigns to him and smiled, a facial expression previously thought impossible by the psychic.

"That's our queue. Ready to joust, newbie?"


	4. Chapter 4

Lassiter hated this time of year. The whole concept of the fair was completely ridiculous. People dressing up to reenact centuries-old customs? It was absurd. If anything, they should be mourning the period for all the war and death it yielded. And, for the record, dressing up and reenacting events from the Civil War was _completely_ different. At least those battles shaped a new nation.

Nevertheless, every year the festival came around there was an increase of petty crime in the area, which, in effect, made his job extremely unpleasant. You don't understand the concept of awkwardness until you've dragged a half naked drunk out of the gutter with a bare turkey leg in one hand and a toy sword in the other, and that's on a good day. And there was nothing on this God green earth that would force him to recount that story again. To anybody.

So, as he pulled up in front of those wretched gates that morning, he couldn't suppress the cringe that shook his figure. O'Hara was waving at him near the entrance, but when he started to get out of the car, she frowned and walked over.

"That's not seriously what you're wearing, is it?" she asked.

Lassiter blinked and looked down at his usual suit and tie combo, giving his partner a confused look. "What? What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" he asked, taking a another look at his clothes to make sure he hadn't spilled anything on them. He better not have, either, because he had just purchased this crisp 'Washington' black ensemble a few weeks ago.

"Carlton! We're supposed to keep this investigation under wraps! You can't walk into a _Renaissance_ Fair looking like that. People will take one look at you and think you're a cop!"

"A fact I take great pride in."

Juliet gave him one of those you-better-do-something-quick-or-I'll-do-it glares and he sighed haughtily. He took off his jacket hesitantly, smoothing out the creases before laying it on the back of his drivers seat, and, at Juliet's expectant gaze, also took off his tie. Feeling utterly bare, he turned to his partner with an expression of utmost disapproval on his face. "Happy?"

"Good enough. We'll get you something else to wear once we get inside." Juliet said with a small smile on her face, obviously enjoying his discomfort too much for her own good. She turned and started walking toward the gates.

"There is no way in hell I am touching _anything_ within that cesspit. I can practically smell the manure from here." Lassiter grumbled behind her as he hurried to catch up.

After they were let inside, Juliet glanced at her partner again, raising an eyebrow. Somehow, she always knew when something was bugging him, and it wasn't just the place they were in at the moment. "Alright, spit it out. You never hated this place so much before. In fact, last year I remember you telling me that you were thankful for it bringing so many perps to light and filling up the holding cells."

Lassiter frowned and didn't say anything, just continued to walk down the cobbled road toward the stadium. Juliet studied him closer and then something clicked. She had to resist the smirk that threatened to spread across her face. "It's Shawn, isn't it? You're jealous that he gets to go undercover?"

"What?" Lassiter exclaimed, stopping altogether in his stride. "O'Hara, I am _not_ jealous."

Yet again with one of those know-it-all glares. Lassiter wasn't sure whether he should abhor or appreciate the fact that his partner was able to get him to confess things as if he were a common criminal in the interrogation room on a daily basis. No one else had ever been able to do that.

"I might be a little jealous," he admitted sourly. "But it's only because I haven't had an undercover case in several years..."

"I'm sure you'll get one eventually, Carlton. If not, I'll talk to the Chief myself." Juliet reassured him, though she wasn't exactly sure how that would work out. Numerous sources around the police station noted that Lassiter was terrible at undercover work. She'd just have to believe it when she saw it. "But for now, back down on some of the hostility, alright? You'll scare away any potential suspects."

Lassiter was about to reply with a hesitant consent when there was a sudden uproar coming from the jousting field. He couldn't tell whether it was cheering or not, but it was definitely worth checking out. Knowing Spencer, he probably caused a great deal of trouble. He shared a glance with his partner and the two them hurried there.

*0*0*0*0*0*0*0*

Sudden, white light.

He wasn't sure whether it was from one of Gus' flashlights, or from some other source, but he sincerely hoped he didn't have glaucoma. Didn't blind people see black? If he wanted to stare at nondescript and blank surroundings all day he'd just sit in Gus's living room...

Oh, wait. Scratch that. A large milk dud was just thrust in front of his face. He frowned. Chocolate didn't fair well in the sun. He should probably do something about that. He decided now was a good time to acknowledge his surroundings, just when the ball of candy found it an appropriate time to speak.

"Shawn?"

"Gus?" Shawn asked, squinting as he sat up, realizing that he was now on the ground. "Am I dead?"

"No, Shawn. You fell off your horse and hit your head." Gus told him calmly, trying to ignore the crowd that was beginning to cluster around them. He glanced around anxiously, as if he had done something really embarrassing, which was odd since Shawn was the one that fell on his ass.

"Jeez, Nova must really have some power behind that lance then," he stated, getting up slowly and wincing at the dull ache that began to pound at the back of his skull. He sincerely hoped he didn't have a concussion. His world wasn't spinning as of yet, so he took that as a good sign.

Gus cleared his throat, leaning forward a little bit to whisper to him in the quietest voice possible. "Well, you really didn't get hit so much as you... kinda screamed like a girl and lept off the horse, hitting your head on the railing in the process..." Shawn blinked, slowly remembering what had actually happened. He was about to reply until a booming voice echoed toward them.

"What the hell kind of a recruit are you? How did you even make the cut to tryout here?" Nova's voice was particularly terrifying when raised to that sort of pitch. It took several moments for Shawn to find a way to speak and think up an excuse at the same time.

"I saw a bee."

Nova stared at him blankly, his fists slowly unclenching. "You saw a bee," he repeated, not sure if he should take that reason as some kind of joke.

"Yeah, see, I'm deathly allergic. If I get stung just once, my head will swell to the size of a pineapple!"

Gus quickly rushed to his aid. "It's not a pretty sight. Trust me."

"And do you normally scream out loud everytime you see a flying bug?" the fellow knight asked, the tone of his voice unclear of whether he was just humoring them or believing their story.

"I... had a moment of weakness," was all Shawn could think of to say.

Nova just shook his head. "Whatever, Farrel, just get back on your horse. I'm not going to be babysitting any recruits today. If you're too scared to joust, just get the hell out of here," he declared, turning on his heel and heading toward the opposite end of the pitch.

Shawn glowered at his back, but headed toward his horse anyway.

At the entrance to the stadium, Lassiter and Juliet hurried in, spotting Shawn and a crowd slowly dispersing back into the stands. Whatever had caused the disruption was over. However, two giggling teenagers were nearby and the detectives approached them. "What happened here?" Juliet asked.

"Some dude totally bit the dust in one of the matches," the first lanky student said, trying to control his laughter. "The guy screamed like a little girl!"

"And I missed it?" Lassiter exclaimed before he could stop himself. He didn't regret it though. "Just my luck."

Seeing Shawn wimp out on a jousting match would have definitely cheered him up a whole lot about the undercover issue. His partner shot him another look, but it didn't have any effect on him this time. The two finally just settled to watch what was going to happen next.

Across the field, Shawn was getting back on his horse, now more determined to prove that he could keep his cool and win the match. Gus hadn't gone back to the stands yet, instead hovering by his horse, a question burning in his mind. "Why _did_ you wimp out anyway, Shawn? If you knew you didn't want to joust, why even sign up for the job?"

Shawn looked like he was going to object to the 'wimp out' scenario, but he decided it was a pretty accurate way of describing what he did. "Dude, what kind of Renaissance Fair uses real lances? I thought this whole charade was going to be fake. Like Medieval Times."

"Don't be hating on Medieval Times, Shawn."

There was another moment while Shawn considered commenting/poking fun at Gus's statement, then he just shook his head. "Whatever, Gus. Let's just say I'm not particularly looking forward to a 10 foot pole being slammed into my chest constantly over the next week. Someone did just die from it yesterday," he said in one of his rare bitter tones.

"Well, you better get over it fast, then, because Santanova's racing toward you right... now," Gus said, quickly hurrying out of the way as Shawn turned to indeed find the knight charging toward him.

The psychic sighed and gripped his lance tightly, willing his horse forward to gain speed so he wouldn't be at a disadvantage. Ignoring the involuntary fear that gripped him, he leaned forward purposefully, narrowing his eyes to try and find the best part to hit. Nova had given him several things to look out for, like the way your opponent held his lance and their position on their steed. It wasn't much to go on, but he was going to use the most of it.

There was at least one good thing about his wipeout earlier, and it was that Shawn had had ample time before he lept off his horse to examine his opponent's technique in the joust. Now, he knew what Nova was going to do and possibly use that at as an advantage.

As the two jousters were getting closer to each other, they lowered their lances to chest level in order to get their hit. For just a tryout match it seemed very intense, even if it was just for the two involved. A few seconds before they were about to collide, Shawn's observant gaze caught sight of Nova's lance and he was hit with a sudden realization that made his blood run cold.

His inner voice was screaming at him to stop, but it was too late.

_Oh sh-_

Impact.


	5. Chapter 5

"Ow! Ow, ow! Gus, it hurts...!"

"I know, Shawn. Just stay still."

"OWW! Would you stop doing that?"

"Don't be a baby, Shawn. It's just a splinter."

Wrong. That was so totally wrong. It wasn't just a splinter. It was some rogue piece of wood who found that taking residence inside of his palm was the most effective way of driving the psychic insane. It was doing a hell of a job of it too, and Shawn had to constantly resist trying to pull his hand away from the determined pharmaceutical rep beside him.

"Stop poking the damn thing and take it out already!"

"Be patient. These kinds of things take time. It could be infected."

"Oh, well remind me to always come to you when it comes to the etiquette of splinter remov- AGH!"

Shawn quickly pulled his hand away from Gus to examine his palm, from which the piece of wood had been forcefully withdrawn. "A little warning would've been nice!" he complained, clamping his other hand on top of the wound and jumping up and down a little bit as if it was the worst pain he'd felt in all his life.

"You're welcome," Gus said, rolling his eyes.

He knew the only way to keep Shawn from complaining about the removal was to do it without warning, otherwise he would've had to suffer through another ten minutes of his cries until he finally had the courage to tell Gus to take it out. For someone who constantly had a gun shoved in his face in his line of work, you'd think he'd show some type of tolerance, pain or otherwise. Of course, Shawn was always one to go for the attention and sympathy, which is what he got, or at least the closest thing to it. Juliet and Lassiter were headed toward them across the field where they were standing.

Not a few yards away from them, Nova was leaning against the railing of the pitch, looking a little winded and bewildered at the same time.

"Sha- I mean, Tom, that was amazing! How'd you learn to do that?" Juliet's voice reached them first as the two detective's approached. The head detective looked rather sullen in reaction to what had happened.

Imagine Lassiter's surprise when Shawn not only managed to stay on his horse the second match, but was also able to deliver a full-fledged blow to Nova's chest and knock him off the horse in the process. It in no way improved his mood and his partner's ecstatic voice about what had happened didn't help things either.

"I'm curious about that too. How did you know what to do?" Gus asked him.

Now that the whole splinter situation was out of the way, he tried to replay what he had seen. It all went rather fast. The two were heading toward each other at incredible speed and it looked like they pretty much had their targets marked and knew where they were going to hit. But then, at the last second, Shawn shifted to the side a bit, bringing one shoulder behind him so that Nova's lance would just glance off his armor. At the same time too, he thrust his own lance forward and Nova, being caught off balance by the near-miss, took a full blow to the chest, knocking him backward and onto the ground. The uproar that followed was a lot louder than the one that had occurred previously at Shawn's wiping out.

Shawn just beamed, particularly when it was Juliet that praised him. "Some of us are just born to be talented, Jules," he replied a little arrogantly, though was corrected by one of Gus's jabs to his ribs.

He certainly wasn't going to tell them the truth, which was that the shift in his position was actually just his second attempt at trying to get off the horse, but cut short when Nova hit him with the lance.

Yeah, he'd definitely let them think that he was just that good.

Oh, and that reminded him.

"Oh, yeah! I was going to show you guys something," Shawn said excitedly, turning and heading in the opposite direction without waiting for their response. On the way he stooped low and picked up Nova's discarded lance.

"It's okay if I borrow this, right, buddy?" he asked the other knight, who just looked up at him with a murderous glare. It looked like someone didn't take defeat well, particularly by a newbie. Shawn just shrugged and with the detectives and Gus in tow, headed toward the armory where the spare lances were held.

When they entered the establishment, they were approached by a hardened and burly woman who had the hygiene you would usually associate with a hard working blacksmith.

"Farrel, right? Need another lance, do ya? I swear you jousters break enough of those as it is. You could at least leave me with something to work with besides a big pile of splinters every day," she said rather harshly, as if choosing this occupation was somehow their fault

Shawn winced internally at the new mention of splinters but then paused, taking a moment to give his surroundings a cursory glance. He spotted a signature on a piece of paper by the woman and decided to run with it.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Greenwell, but I was hoping to have a look at the lances myself."

The lady blacksmith gave him a long, odd look at him and it pretty much looked like she was going to refuse until she just sighed, standing aside to allow them through. "Don't touch anything else. It's my lunch break anyway," she grumbled before leaving.

"Thanks!" Shawn responded, heading toward the back of the place, but was stopped by the woman again.

"These three have to go with you?" she asked, now eying his coworkers suspiciously, particularly Lassiter.

"Oh, yes! These are my... squires!" Shawn quickly improvised. His chosen excuse didn't seem to sit well with any of them and Lassiter was about to disagree before he was interrupted by Shawn's continued dialogue.

"This is Yakko, Wakko and Dot. Don't you worry, they won't touch anything."

Mrs. Greenwell stared blankly at the fake psychic with an expression similar to Nova's when he had told him about the bee. Then she just shook her head and left without another word, but not without sending another calculating gaze their way. The way she reacted to their presence confused Shawn for a moment, but then he shrugged and got back to what he was here for. Now free to continue his investigation without prying eyes, Shawn wandered toward the back of the armory, his gaze wandering over each lance as if looking for something in particular.

"I better not be Wakko, Shawn," Gus whispered to him as they reached the back, wanting to make sure he wasn't mistaken for that particular cartoon character.

"Dude, you know we'll always be Pinky and the Brain."

"I hear that."

After sharing a quick fistbump, Shawn continued his current investigation of the racks of lances in the place, not really providing any information on why they were there in the first place.

"Shawn, what's all this about?" Juliet finally asked after several moments of silence and rummaging around. Lassiter seemed quite comfortable idling in the doorway, ready to bolt when whatever Shawn wanted to show them proved unusable in their current investigation, which he highly hoped.

Shawn held up one hand for a quick moment of silence and then suddenly started taking down several random lances down from the racks. At least, they seemed random. After grabbing about five of them, he scuttled over to where the group was and dumped them at their feet, though only drawing a clueless expression from each of their faces. He sighed and picked up the lance he had stolen from Nova, brandishing it in front of them.

"What looks different about this lance compared to all the other ones on the racks?"

There was a moment of silence while the three leaned forward to look at the weapon and then glanced at the ones that were on the shelves.

"I don't see anything different," Lassiter said lazily.

"Wrong, Lassie! There is a difference," Shawn corrected him, gripping the lance with both hands and then suddenly slamming against the side counter they were standing in front of, much like he did back at the station. So much so, in fact, the head detective decided to call him out on it.

"Spencer! What the hell is it with you and breaking things lately?"

Shawn just ignored him and placed the broken lance on the counter in front of him, drawing their attention to it. There were small gasps from Juliet and Gus, and even Lassiter seemed a little surprised. Just like the previous lance, this one had been tampered with as well, but not with nearly an intricate mechanism. There was no spring trap this time, but just the same piece of sharp metal inside, and could very well do enough damage to disable someone or possibly even kill them.

"How did you know these were tampered with as well?" Lassiter asked, leaning down to examine the lance again.

"Psychic intuition, Lassieface. You should know that by now."

Shawn just grinned at the roll of the detective's eyes. He had, in fact, been able to tell in a different way. In the slow-mo version of his joust, he had noticed in the brightness of the sun that the shade of Nova's lance was slightly different than the mauve-colored ones on the racks. If someone had tampered with it, they could have very well picked the wrong brand of paint to re-shade it.

"These are all the other ones that have the same piece of metal in them as well," he said, pushing the pile toward the detective, all of which had a different off-color red than the original lances.

"Shawn... you could have been killed!" Juliet couldn't help but say, her eyes wide when she finally figured out what exactly could have happened on the field earlier.

He didn't have to be reminded. In fact, he was just now realizing how close to death and/or injury he really was out on that pitch. If he hadn't moved like he did at the last second, he could have been on his way to the hospital right now, alive or dead. He'd have to be extremely careful from now on, because after this discovery it brought up two important things.

One, it brought up questions on whether or not Nova knew whether the lance was tampered with and had something to do with the scheme.

And two, more importantly, was that whoever was behind these lances, didn't just pick off Williams because he was a jackass. He (or she) was intentionally trying to pick off members of the jousting team, which put his life in that much more danger.

"Jules, I'm fine. It'll take a lot more than that to kill me," he said, hiding his discomfort with one of his trademark grins.

Juliet didn't seem convinced, though she did catch on to one of Shawn's inner thoughts about Nova's allegiance. She quickly whipped out her phone and started dialing a number.

"I'm calling for a black and white to come bring in Santanova for questioning."

"Jules, I don't think that's..." Shawn started to say, but was silenced by Juliet's patented glare.

It seemed like whenever Juliet put her mind to something, she couldn't be stopped, so he figured he shouldn't try to convince her otherwise. Hopefully Nova won't realize it was Shawn's tip that brought him to station, other wise it would blow his cover. While Juliet went outside to finish her call, Lassiter turned to the two in front of him, and Shawn could already tell he wasn't going to like what he was going to say.

"Spencer, I'm not too sure whether we should keep you on this case anymore. Now that we know that whoever is doing this is trying to pick off knights on the jousting team, you very well could be next. We can't risk potential civilian injury."

It was very odd hearing that come out of Lassiter's mouth, and Shawn had to take a minute to regain his thoughts enough to protest. The detective very well could just be going according to procedure, but he'd stick with his far more likely theory of him wanting to get Shawn out of this undercover gig pronto.

"What? No way! It's just starting to get interesting!"

"I don't care how much 'fun' you think this is, Spencer. If the Chief wants you off, you'll get off this case." Lassiter replied dangerously, beginning to take out his own phone and dial Chief Vick.

"Wait! Come on, Lassie! Just give me... a day, alright? If I don't give you some new evidence in 24 hours, I'll willingly leave the case in your capable hands and won't bother you at the station for, oh let's say, three days." It would be physically impossible for him to stay away longer than that, if he even kept his promise in the first place. And at this point, it didn't seem likely.

Whether it was Shawn's pleading voice or the promise of a Spencer-free police station for 72 hours, they wouldn't know, but Lassiter gave them a stern look before sighing and snapping his cell shut, walking out the door without another word. Shawn visibly let out a breath about being let off the hook, at least for now.

"So, what are we going to do now?" Gus asked, having been virtually silent after the reveal of the tampered lances. He, too, was worried about Shawn's well-being about being involved with this case. He figured he shouldn't mention it though. He seemed to be exactly like Juliet in this situation, not wanting to back down until he got what he wanted, even though his life may be in danger.

"I think it's time we do some snooping around," Shawn said, a familiar smile etching his features.

Gus visibly bristled at his words.

"I _really_ hate it when you say that."


	6. Chapter 6

The fair grounds were particularly creepy at night. Once all the lively shops and activities were closed down for the day, the place became an inevitable ghost town. Since most of the events were scheduled to end before sunset, many of the guests and workers had their shops closed before the sun was even all the way down. All the late night janitors (yes, they had janitors) had to rely on flashlights because the park's heads didn't want to waste the money leaving the generators on for a late night cleaning crew. Duties of such an occupation included taking out the trash (which smelled awful, by the way), cleaning the horse stables and shining the display armor and weapons for the next day. Needless to say, there were very few people in the whole of Santa Barbara who would volunteer for such a job.

Good thing a certain psychic duo had a free schedule and certain inside connections that could hook them up with said assignment, even if it was against one's better judgment and/or will.

"This is disgusting, Shawn."

The disgruntled voice beside him didn't help things, especially when the commentary was repeated constantly over the course of five minutes. Shawn had to hold in an annoyed sigh while he picked up a nearby bag of garbage and threw it into the container that held all the others.

"Gus, don't be a drunken hippo. At least we got in, didn't we?"

"Why couldn't you just wave your fancy 'Knight' title around and get in that way? I'm probably going to have to take three baths just to get the smell of the bubonic plague out of my clothes," Gus muttered darkly, tilting his head to the side and sniffing his clothes with a disgusted look on his face.

Since their job summaries didn't necessarily indicate there was a dress code to adhere to, Shawn and Gus had decided to wear something similar to what they wore for their undercover ops in the Blackapella case. Or what Shawn liked to call their 'sneaky sneaky' outfits. To avoid suspicion when getting into the fair at sunset, they had acted like guests dressed like ninjas in costume, which didn't even really make sense now that he thought about it. It was really hard to make out each other in the darkness of the night when wearing such clothes, especially when you only had a couple of flashlights to go by.

Now they were just waiting for the last person at the fair to leave so they could commence their snooping around without interruption. It had already been half an hour after the gates officially closed and Shawn threw a glare at one of the establishments on the corner near the front that still had it's light on. He knew it to be the quarters of Nathaniel Grayson. It didn't help matters either that he had actually planned for that particular place to be investigated first. Being the events coordinator, he planned most of the activities that went on at the fair, and would probably have files on all the staff that worked here. Of course, it also explained why he would stay so late after dark. Having such a job probably was a lot of work, and Shawn didn't envy the man for it.

"Sha-"

"Shh, Gus! Look!" Shawn interrupted what was probably just another complaint about the garbage around them, instead pointing toward the entrance where the light at Grayson's place went out. Shortly after, a figure exited the building and turned around to lock the door. At the sight of that, Shawn sighed heavily. He was hoping that it would be easy. Just get in, and get out. Who the heck locks a door to a room full of files about Renaissance fair employees?

Unless they had something to hide.

There was a thought. Shawn raised his eyebrows curiously as that particular cognition came to his mind, watching as the elder man gave furtive glances around him before heading toward the exit and leaving through the gates. He certainly was showing some peculiar behavior for a man who seemed so confident before when he was instructing the recruits. He'd have to mull over it later, because there was absolutely no evidence

Now that the police had extracted all of the lances that Shawn pointed out, the killer would probably find some other means of committing his or her heinous acts. In his own opinion, he would assume that if anyone noticed their own murder weapons missing, you would probably hightail it out of there so you wouldn't get caught. He had a strange feeling, though, that it wasn't over. This killer was determined, and it made it that much more urgent for him to solve this case before someone, namely himself, got hurt.

After waiting several minutes to make sure the coast was indeed clear, the two hurried down the main walkway that split through the fair. Reaching the door, Shawn grabbed the door handle and jiggled it. No use. He sighed, glancing around the area for maybe a spare key that could have been hidden, though he knew it was useless before he even completed a full turnaround. Instead, he turned to Gus with a hopeful expression on his face, pointing to the doorknob.

"Have at it, lock whisperer."

Gus looked at the doorknob and then back at his friend, a confused look on his face. "You're kidding, right? That only works on safes and combinations. This door was locked with a _key_," he put extra emphasis on the last word, in case Shawn didn't quite understand what it meant.

"Then speak to the doorknob or something!"

Clearly, he didn't.

After another glare being delivered to him from Gus, Shawn sighed again and moved toward the door, peering in through the tiny window for a moment. Then he took a step back and pulled back an arm as if to punch out the glass. Gus saw what he was going to do at the last second and grabbed his arm to prevent him from committing the punishable offense.

"No. Nuh uh, Shawn. _No_ breaking and entering."

"What else are we supposed to do?"

"Find another way!"

With a loud harumph, Shawn stood there for a moment, starting to the regret the amount of time being wasted trying to find a way past a locked door. Some kind of spies they were. Finally, as a third, and hopefully final, thought came to mind, he took out his trusty pocket knife, kneeling down in front of the door. It had been so long since he had been forced to learn the skill that he had to take a moment to recall exactly how to execute it. Then, he leaned forward, pulling out the thinnest of the blades and sticking it into the keyhole, jiggling it around a little bit in hopes of finding that satisfying click.

"Since when did you learn how to pick a lock?" Gus asked from behind him, bewildered.

"Since the time I accidentally handcuffed myself to one of the fence posts in the backyard," came the disgruntled reply. There were were several moments while his friend absorbed this information and then a small grin appeared on his face.

"Was that that time when you were yelling bloody murder for three hours because your dad had the night shift that evening?"

"Yes! And I can't believe you refused to help me!"

"Shawn, you had stolen a box of my GI Joes and fed them to the neighborhood dog. I wasn't particularly forgiving at the time."

"Which is why I took great joy in leaving an open tube of toothpaste in your bed that night."

"What? That was y-?"

Click.

Shawn quickly opened the door after his successful lock picking venture, pouncing into the dark room to avoid the tirade that would have inevitably come if that particular conversation continued. He heard Gus slowly come in behind him, practicing his Lamaze breathing to try and keep his temper under control. Now was definitely not the time for childhood squabbles.

The room was rather spacious, around the size of the Psych office, or perhaps a little bigger. It was covered in medieval paraphenalia and Shawn had to take a moment to distinguish the actual furniture amongst the antiques. In terms of offices, it was rather bare. It contained only one desk, a couple file cabinets and what looked to be a decade-old computer. Maneuvering himself through the maze of antiquities, Shawn arrived at the desk and started rummaging through the drawers quietly, intent on finding some type of evidence that could help them out in this case.

Gus headed toward the file cabinets after taking another moment to cool down. He struggled a little bit with the lock, but eventually got it open. He was just about to sift through the papers when a cry of surprise from the desk caught his attention.

"Gus! Gus! Look what I found!" Shawn cried, though quickly lowering his voice halfway through his sentence, in case he drew in any unnecessary attention. Once Gus had made his way back over to him, he shoved a crumpled envelope in his hand, as if it had been opened and reopened several times. Gus opened it to find a small piece of paper inside with red lettering.

_Give me what I want or I'll go to authorities. -GNWL_

The four letters at the end of the message were surrounded by a symbol of some sort, something similar to a house crest way back in the days. Talk about medieval buff.

"What's this supposed to mean?" Gus asked, his face crumpled in a confused expression as he looked to Shawn for answers.

"GNWL... GNWL..." Shawn mused, trying to find out why those letters sounded so familiar to him. He paused as he flashed back to seeing the signature of the blacksmith back at the armory.

"It's Greenwell, Gus! That woman back at the armory!"

"Why would she be blackmailing Grayson?"

"I don't know yet. Were you able to open the file cabinet? We have to see her employee file."

"Yeah, it's over here."

Shawn returned the envelope back to the desk drawer where he had found it. If it all went according to plan, he could 'psychically' lead the detectives to the office and have them find the key piece of evidence, thus effectively keeping them on this case at least for a little while longer. Then he headed over to the file cabinets, where Gus was sifting through the papers in an attempt to find their person of interest.

"Here she is," Gus finally said, taking out the manila folder labeled 'Greenwell' and handing it to Shawn.

Shawn leafed through the folder, bypassing the original application for the job and the drug test required and settling on the resume at the back of it. He scanned the piece of paper, stopping about midway through as his eyes narrowed on a startling piece of information. He showed it to Gus without a word, and even smiled when he saw the same startled expression on his friend's face.

Mrs. Greenwell (or Luanne Greenwell as the folder mentioned) had a bachelor's degree in civil engineering and a minor in operational physics from the California Institute of Technology.

"Gus, we found our killer."

The two of them shared a fistbump and were about to engage in their obligatory round of shameless dancing when the noise of a jiggling doorknob reached their ears. They both stopped cold in their tracks for a moment as they looked toward the door, though it still remained closed. Whoever was trying to get in must not have realized that the door was already unlocked. In that moment, the duo suddenly broke out of their frozen statures and started scurrying around the office in an attempt of finding someplace to hide. Gus, in particular, was trying to fit inside a suit of armor near the front.

"What are you doing?" Shawn asked in a low but hoarse whisper as he saw what his friend was attempting to do. "This isn't Scooby Doo!"

"There aren't a lot options here, Shawn!"

They both paused for a moment, then, at the same time, glancing toward the back of the office at the rather large and extravagant fireplace they had seen when they had come in. Sharing a look, the two quickly hurried to it just as the doorknob started to turn for the door to be opened. Shawn pushed Gus up the chimney first and then quickly squeezed himself in. There was barely enough room for one person, let alone two.

Shawn pulled himself upward into the chimney so that his lower body wouldn't be seen when the door opened. Propping his back against one side of the fireplace and his feet against the other, he was able to keep himself in midair if he kept enough pressure on both areas. Gus was doing something similar, but in the opposite direction. Needless to say, they were both fidgeting quite a lot in an attempt to keep themselves from falling in such a cramped space. Shawn had a newfound respect for Santa Claus and the work he did, because he was severely under appreciated for it.

Shawn and Gus silenced themselves immediately as the door finally opened.


	7. Chapter 7

-Chapter 7-

The door slowly opened, streaming the bright moonlight into the room as it did so. Whoever was in the doorway paused for a minute, judging from the faded shadow Shawn saw when he looked down at the floor. Then they both heard light footsteps as the shadow moved across the room and toward Grayson's desk after closing the door behind him quietly. Shawn was just about to wonder how the man could see in such pitch black darkness when he heard the sound of a flashlight clicking on.

As the beam of light traveled across the small space, Shawn suddenly realized something and mentally cursed himself. They had left the Greenwell file, open and obvious, right on top of the file cabinet. If whoever was here found it, they could be in some deep trouble. He had a feeling that the intruder wasn't particularly invited either, and hoped that he found whatever he was looking for quick, so they could get the hell out of the cramped space, pronto. His right leg was already starting to go numb and he wasn't sure how long he could stay in a position like this.

He glanced at Gus, who had the same panicked look on his face, obvious even in the darkness of their little niche. Noise of rustling paper and slamming drawers could be heard coming in the direction of the desk. The burglar seemed to be looking for something. Quite frantically, too, because the noise gradually escalated as the man increased his search for whatever he was looking for. He had obviously not taken any spy lessons and the term 'sneaky' was definitely not in his repertoire.

Shawn shifted a little to try and get more of a hold on things, disturbing some of the soot that lined the walls of the chimney around them. As the dust swirled around them, Shawn felt a familiar twitching in the neighborhood of his nose area, and quickly tried to stop it. Now was definitely not the time to sneeze. He would've tried to stop it by putting a hand to his face, if he wasn't already using them to keep from falling. His faced scrunched up in that recognizable 'sneezing' expression, before a hand clamped down on his nose at the last second.

"Don't you _dare_ sneeze, Shawn," Gus scolded him in the lowest voice he could muster, hoping the noises from the desk would shield his warning from being heard.

"It's not like I can help it," Shawn shot back in the same tone, once Gus's hand was free from his face and back against the wall.

The two paused and once again held their breath as the rustling of papers halted, praying to some merciful higher being that their short quips hadn't caught the attention of the intruder. The silence that wafted through the air was unbearable and seemed to last forever before they heard that one promising footstep against the creaky boards of the file room. Shawn almost seemed to sigh in relief until he noticed that the footsteps weren't heading toward the door, but in the direction of their hiding place.

The steps were slow and deliberate, as if he waiting for something to happen, and definitely seemed to belong to someone suspicious of something. The duo's eyes widened like saucers when they saw the tall black boots appear at the entrance to the fireplace and stop. They sat there in their uncomfortable positions for what seemed like an eternity. Then Shawn's heart stopped when he heard a familiar clicking sound.

That was a gun.

The intruder started to get on his knees so he could peer into the chimney.

Oh, god. They were dead. They were _so_ dead.

Just when Shawn was internally going through his bucket list and mourning all the things he never got to do, a shrill ringing of a cell phone pierced the air. Shawn had to resist the reflex to put his hands over his ears just due to the earsplitting nature of the ring tone in such a quiet room. The man below them cursed audibly and quickly got to his feet, answering the phone before it could make more of a ruckus.

"What?" he answered savagely to whoever was calling. Definitely didn't want to get on this guy's bad side. There was a silence for a moment as he listened to the response.

"Yes, of course I got it. What the hell are you-?" he was cut off by whoever was on the other line. Shawn couldn't tell himself, the phone being so far away, but he could distinctly hear a shrill voice in the air. "I'll be right there," the man said, snapping his phone shut with as much force as he could muster. Whatever he heard on the other line had obviously displeased him.

Seemingly ignoring his previous venture to investigate the chimney, the man quickly stalked out of the office, slamming the door behind him and not even bothering to make the place look presentable so they wouldn't find out it had been broken into. Shawn released a humongous sigh, but at that moment, his foot slipped and slid up the wall, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the bottom of the fireplace, pulling Gus along with him.

"Ugh…" Shawn moaned, laying there for a minute to let the soot around them settle from their tumble. Then he slowly started to get up and creep out of the chimney while his friend did the same, albeit a lot slower. He put a hand on his back and straightened it, hearing a satisfying crack as he stood up. He'd had survived more horrible falls before, this one paled in comparison to the others. "Dude, what was that about?" he mused.

Gus didn't answer until he was fully on his feet, groaning a little bit as his back also gave him some trouble. At least he wasn't complaining about his coccyx this time. "I don't know, but we got to get out of here. Pronto," he replied, grabbing his fallen flashlight and heading toward the door.

"What do you think he was looking for?" Shawn posed another question instead of following Gus, turning and scanning the office in an attempt to find out what he had stolen.

"I don't care, Shawn. Now let's go," he opened the door a small amount and turned to look at his friend with a determined expression on his face. Shawn was about to grudgingly agree, before he caught sight of the desk, where several of the doors were open. His eyes narrowed and he quickly moved to investigate, going straight to the place where he had found the letter and ruffling through it.

"Crap, Gus… He took the note we found," Shawn cursed silently as he continued to search through the drawer with no success. "That was the evidence we needed to stay on the case!" He slammed the open drawers shut aggravatingly, pissed off to have such a key piece of evidence just taken away from him.

Gus walked over and glanced at the desk briefly, a frown on his face. "We'll just have to find something else. But can we please go now? I really don't want to spend the night in jail because of our break in," Gus said urgently, almost convinced that their sneaking around had drawn some sort of unwanted attention, even though they had been relatively quiet.

"Yeah, I guess," Shawn said unwillingly, heading back towards the door before he once again caught sight of something. "Oh, hey. Buddy, go start the car. I need to go put Greenwell's file back in the cabinet." Gus didn't disagree, and seemed relatively happy to finally get out of that little office, after having caused him so much trouble.

Shawn went back to the file, intending on putting it back quickly, but then he noticed all the other folders in the cabinet. He frowned. Having some information on the other knights would definitely help their case. Glancing back at the slightly open door for a second, he took out his phone and started to take pictures of all the files, including Morley, Weaver, Nova and MacIntire. For good measure, he also included Grayson. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something off about him.

Feeling as if he had already spent too much time alone in this creepy medieval establishment, he quickly locked the files away in the cabinet and exited the building. He turned to relock the door, if it was possible, with his pocket knife.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed onto his wrist tightly and wrenched his arm behind his back. Shawn cried out both in surprise and pain as he was pushed into the solid door with a muted crash, dropping his pocket knife in the process. "Dude, what the-" He was cut off when his arm was pulled further into the opposite direction behind his back and he had to bite down on another cry of pain.

"Who are you?" the savage voice behind him demanded. Shawn recognized his voice as the intruder from before and for the second time that day, his heart stopped. That meant he had a gun. He could have it pulled on him right now and not even know it. He tried to calm down and be his reasonable self, even though he could be in the presence of a possible murderer.

"I, uh, I'm Tom Farrel. Grayson sent me here to get him the files he left at the office," he thought up quickly, though he knew it was a horrible excuse. The attacker probably saw his black clothes, flashlight and soot-covered hair and pretty much concluded he wasn't invited anymore than he himself was.

"Bullshit," he cursed, breathing it right into his ear, making Shawn cringe at the smell of it.

"Dude, Tic-Tacs. Orange flavor. There's a Wal-mart across the street," he said, literally not being able to help himself. He immediately regretted it when he was pushed further into the building, the grip on his wrist tightening so much, he swore he could feel a bruise forming. Shawn's blood ran cold when he felt the chill of a blade being placed near his neck, pushing against his skin, but not enough to break it.

"Tell me who you really are. You're definitely not here just as one of the new recruits," the man threatened dangerously. "I'll know if you're lying. And trust me, I won't hesitate spilling your blood all over Grayson's front door. He's due for a warning anyway."

Shawn consciously gulped at the threat, pretty sure he should go ahead and do as the man asked, because he really didn't feel like losing any of his extremities tonight. "Shawn Spencer," he said breathlessly after some internal debate. "Head Psychic for the SBPD."

There was silence for a moment, and Shawn was fairly certain that he had surprised his attacker with his response. "The police, huh? I should've figured they'd try and send a mole," the voice returned, sounding a little amused. "Have you told them anything you found out tonight?"

Shawn was silent this time, not sure whether he should tell him the truth or lie, because he was warned that the man could tell if he was. His silence seemed to last too long, though, and the impatient offender dug his blade into the side of his neck threateningly. "No! No, I haven't told them anything!" Shawn cried out quickly to stop further injury, wincing as he looked down at the blade with constrained fear.

The man chuckled at his response and then sighed, leaning forward to whisper in Shawn's ear. "Alright, psychic, this is how things are going to play out. I'd love nothing more than to gut you right now and get rid of any loose ends, but I really don't want a swarm of black and whites interfering in my business." Shawn gulped again, this time more audibly, and he could literally feel the man's smile behind him. "You're going to leave this place and never come back. If I find you anywhere near this festival again, I _will_ kill you. Get me?"

Shawn nodded fervently. He would usually make some sort of quip right about now, but he figured he shouldn't mess with the crazy man with a knife to his throat. "If you tell any of your police buddies about what you heard or saw tonight, I'll hunt you down, no matter where you are. I _really_ don't like tattletales, so let's just keep this between us, hm?" Shawn nodded again, wanting nothing more than to get out of this situation, fast.

"Good. Then I hope this is our last time we'll ever see each other. Because if it isn't, I'd feel really sorry for you."

Shawn wasn't sure if it was the playfulness or threatening undertone in his voice that creeped him out more, but he certainly echoed the man's sentiments about never wanting to see each other again. He released an audible sigh when the hand gripping his wrist let go and the blade against his neck was removed. Instead, he was pushed roughly to the ground and the sound of retreating footsteps could be heard. Shawn quickly moved to look behind him and get at least some glimpse of his attacker, but he had already gone.

He sat there for a moment on the ground, replaying what had just happened in his head and just how close he had come to death. _Again_.

He was really starting to hate this case.


	8. Chapter 8

-Chapter 8-

Shawn was having one of those days.

Well, technically, the day hadn't started yet, but it was one of those mornings where you could just tell it was going to be a bad day as soon as you opened your eyes. The screeching of an alarm clock across the room definitely didn't help things. He'd have to exact revenge on Gus for buying him that infernal contraption in the first place. No shiny device should order when he should get up. If he didn't get his normal twelve hours of sleep, he knew he would feel crappy the rest of the day. Sleep deprivation is a hell of a thing.

Shawn stuffed his head under the pillows in an effort to drown out the sound, but it seemed to persist even through that. The reason why he had even put the thing on the dresser halfway across his room eluded him at that point. He didn't even remember setting up an alarm at all last night.

Oh, right. Last night.

With Shawn's unwilling consent, the memory of what happened the previous evening came rushing back to him, waking him up fully and effectively squashing all his hopes of sleeping for another five hours. He was actually quite surprised he had had a dreamless sleep after what had happened. All he knew was that he had been dead tired after Gus dropped him off at the apartment, and had pretty much collapsed on the bed. The couch would've probably been the easier choice, but he figured his mattress would yield better long term results. It probably explained the fact that he was still in his black ensemble and a lot of the bed was covered with a light dusting of soot. He hadn't bothered to tell Gus about his ordeal, because he would've freaked out and gone to the police anyway.

The beeping of the alarm finally getting on his last nerve, he rose to a sitting position, grabbed blindly for an object near him, and hurled it at the clock. It was a direct hit, and Shawn watched with morbid fascination as a 20-year-old Furbie crashed to the ground, making an odd moaning sound like someone had just taken the batteries out of it. Any other day he would've been disappointed at the loss of a childhood toy, but this morning he wasn't. He didn't think there was a term that described how he felt at the moment.

Shawn wasn't even sure why this particular case was bothering him so much. He'd been through these kinds of situations many times before. Had a gun waved in his face more times than he could count, one of them involving him actually getting shot. He had gotten run off the road, fallen down a mine shaft and even had a fist fight (NOT as slap fight) with a corrupt federal marshal. He had gone up against two different serial killers, and even though they had their repercussions, he had lived to tell the tale. He had always assumed that these were just hazards of the job, and up until now, he had been fine with it.

It was a freaking Renaissance Faire, for heaven's sakes. If anything, the worst he would've had to worry about was indigestion from the horde of different kinds of food that was made available to the tourists. It just goes to show you that a murderer could be attracted to many types of things, and apparently, this one happened to be a fan of kings and fairies. Their previous lead of Greenwell being the culprit had obviously been thrown out the window after his encounter last night, and opened up a whole slew of new suspects.

The man had told him to keep his mouth shut and never turn up at the fair again, and Shawn was having a hard time thinking of a way to get around that. He really didn't have the heart to give up on a case, but he wondered if he should just let this one go for once, and not openly put himself in danger like he usually did. Besides, the piece of evidence that they needed was long gone and probably destroyed, and Lassiter was going to take great pleasure in kicking him off of this undercover gig.

Shawn sat there for another few minutes, staring at the wall as these thoughts raced through his mind. Then he shook his head, figuring that thinking about would definitely not make him feel any better. He slowly pulled himself from the warmth of his bed and headed to the bathroom. There he took a gloriously long shower, grateful that he was finally able to get the black stuff off of his skin. When he exited, wearing a clean set of clothes, he stood for a moment, staring at his bed and trying to decide whether he should wash the sheets now, or wait until that night. Odds were he was going to choose the latter.

While he was trying to make this decision, his cell phone suddenly began ringing at a ridiculously high volume. He had to take a moment to remember where he had put it from the other night. Venturing over to his pile of dirty clothes, he pried the ringing device from the tangle and answered it without even looking at the caller id.

"Yeah?"

"Shawn, you're going to have to get down here."

"Jules? What is it?" Shawn asked, wondering why she would call him so early. Granted, eleven in the morning wasn't particularly early in some people's minds, but he had a very strict sleeping schedule, which Juliet, of course, knew about.

"Sorry if I woke you up, Shawn, but we need you down here at the fair, pronto."

Normally he would've been up and out of the door without further question, but recent events had him questioning whether risking his life by going down to the fair was worth it. He still wasn't even sure whether he wanted to be on the case anymore. "What happened?" he asked instead, though he had a feeling he already knew what she was going to say.

"I'd rather not say over the phone."

Uh oh. Another dead body.

"Who's dead, Jules?" Shawn asked, cutting right to the chase, not even bothering to use his I'm-a-psychic-look-what-I-can-divine voice. It was a rather morbid demand at that, and he winced internally when he heard the silence that followed it. He had probably caught Juliet by surprise at his question.

Shawn heard some rustling of papers in the background before he was granted an answer. "A… Luanne Greenwell, judging from the files. She was found just on the outskirts of the Fair in an open field, stabbed through the heart with a dagger." Judging from the disgust in Juliet's voice, he assumed that it wasn't a pretty sight, particularly if the dagger had remained lodged in the body. "So, are you going to come down, then? Lassiter is in a bit of a fit, and I can tell he could use some help, even though he won't admit it."

Although he would usually never pass up the opportunity show up Lassiter at a crime scene, he just couldn't shake his fear of arriving at that fair and getting killed. It was probably his little girl voice that was convincing him, but he just needed more time to figure out what he was going to do. "Sorry, I, uh, won't be able to this time. I've got some… stuff that I need to do," he said, mentally bashing himself for coming up with such a poor excuse.

"Okay," Juliet replied a little hesitantly, pausing for a moment before she continued. "Shawn, are you alright?"

Take it to Juliet to know exactly when he was in a funk. He'd love nothing more than to tell the detective everything, but he knew he couldn't. Not being able to tell her about the threats was crushing him, but he managed to reply in his typical carefree manner. "Right as rain, Jules. Just call me when the body has been taken to the morgue. I'll be able to take a look at it then."

"Alright," Juliet responded, and judging by the tone in her voice, she didn't seem convinced. "Forensics is almost finished up here. The body should be at the morgue in a couple of hours."

"Perfect. I'll see you then, Jules."

"Bye, Shawn."

Disconnecting the call, Shawn released the breath he had been holding in throughout that conversation. The bed was looking awfully inviting once more, but he resisted the urge. He had to think about the case and how the death of Mrs. Greenwell would change it. He was actually surprised it wasn't one of the other jousters, though he had a theory on who the culprit actually was. Now that he thought about it, the man's voice did seem awfully familiar, despite its hoarse undertones.

Sighing, Shawn looked back down at his phone and dialed another number, speaking quickly as his best friend picked up.

"Hey, buddy. I'm going to need a ride."

*0*0*0*0*0*0*

After a lengthy and rather enjoyable lunch at Kingston's, Shawn and Gus were on their way over to the morgue to check out the body. Gus didn't seem to have any qualms about not going to the Fair today, and kept quiet about it, which relieved Shawn immensely. So far, the afternoon wasn't nearly as bad as he had thought it was going to be, and hoped it stayed that way. He really didn't want to abandon the case; it just wasn't in his nature. He prayed that this visit would at least yield some results to work with. The sooner he solved it, the better.

Parking in one of the spaces near the front, the two hurried into the building. Gus visibly paled as they got closer to the room where they held the bodies, as per his usual reaction. Shawn saw fit not to comment on it this time, and pushed open the swinging doors to find the two detectives and the local coroner discussing with Greenwell laying right between them with a white sheet covering her.

"Woody!"

The balding coroner looked up from his conversation with Lassiter and Juliet, and gave the psychic one of his crooked smiles. "Hello there, Shawn. Haven't seen you for quite a while," he said, giving Shawn a small fist bump while Gus looked on with a little bit of jealousy.

"Yeah, well, Gus here has always been paranoid about, uh…" Shawn paused as he looked back at Gus, who was shaking his head vehemently while still trying to mask his disgusted expression. Everyone already knew about his queasiness with dead bodies, but he still seemed dead against Shawn announcing it to the room. "Zombies. Yup, zombies are a real problem in morgues, I hear."

"Well, I did have an Elvis Presley impersonator up and disappear not a few days ago." Pause. "Oh, wait, I think that was Patrick Swayze."

Shawn and Woody burst out laughing in response to the little joke, although Gus just looked annoyed. Lassiter and Juliet rolled their eyes, not even seeing the relevance of associating zombies with the plot of Ghost. It was a poor attempt at humor, but the coroner and Shawn seemed to find it absolutely hilarious.

"Can we focus, please?" Lassiter finally said impatiently as the giggles seemed to echo for a ridiculous amount of time.

Woody cleared his throat. "Uh, ah, yes. Sorry about that," he apologized, adjusting the collar of his shirt as he moved closer to the table. Shawn still had a small smile on his face and glanced at Gus, who just jabbed him in the ribs in an effort to get him to pay attention to the body.

As the coroner pulled back the white sheet, there was collective gasp by all in the room except the detectives. Gus quickly turned around and pretended to be texting someone on his phone, immediately regretting his decision to have jerk chicken before coming to a morgue. The most disturbing thing was probably the fact that the dagger was still sticking straight out of her chest, no attempts to remove it had been made. "Why didn't you remove the murder weapon before we got here?" Gus asked meekly.

"It takes a certain amount of finesse to do that. Which, fortunately, is in my job description," Woody replied with a grin, taking hold of the dagger with gloved hands and slowly pulling it out of the body. Everyone took a step back as he did that, not wanting to get sprayed unintentionally with arterial fluid. No such thing happened, though, and as the dagger was fully removed, all of them (well, excluding Gus) moved forward to investigate further.

"Cause of death is pretty cut and dry," Woody said, laying the murder weapon in one of the tin basins around him. "A stab through the heart can do that to ya."

"Shawn, can you… divine anything?" Juliet asked.

Shawn didn't seem particularly interested in the body anymore, and seemed more invested in checking out the murder weapon that was just removed. He picked up the basin, narrowing his eyes as he tried to notice something that could possibly be off. It was a rather intricate-looking dagger, not one you would normally see on the market of a Renaissance Fair. He knew if it was cleaned up and sharpened a bit, it'd cost more than a pretty penny on the market. He touched the handle with his index finger and pulled away, smudging it with his thumb. Some sort of black substance was on them.

Soot.

"Woody, let me see your hands," Shawn demanded, and the coroner obliged, holding out his gloved hands for him to see. They, too, were covered in some black soot. There wasn't much of it, but it was good enough to support what he was thinking.

Still going through his mental process, Shawn frowned and circled the table to the opposite end of the body. The detectives were eerily silent as they watched the psychic go through his routine. It seemed to surprise them that Shawn was taking this so seriously once the cause of death had been shown to him. He pulled back the end part of the sheet to reveal the feet. Taking one of the disposable gloves from a nearby box, he put one on (with some difficulty) and lifted one of the feet.

Looking around the heels, he spotted some rough abrasions along with dirt near that area, as if she had been dragged a long distance. At this discovery, Shawn put a hand to his head and closed his eyes. He lifted the foot so that the detectives could see the wounds, and quickly explained the purpose. "Greenwell wasn't killed out in that field, but rather was dragged there from somewhere else. I'm sensing probably in the armory, or somewhere around that area, since that was the place she frequented the most."

Juliet nodded and jotted down a few notes as another previous thought returned to Shawn and decided to act on it. "Was Mrs. Greenwell married, perchance?" he asked, sounding a little hopeful.

"Yes, actually," Juliet supplied, taking the casefile on the blacksmith and handing it to Shawn, where it showed a picture of a man and a woman – one of them Luanne – smiling for the camera. "His name is Jack. McNab is trying to get in touch with him as we speak. He works out of town in Los Angeles, so it might take him a while to get here."

Great. Well, there went that theory. It still didn't explain why someone would send a blackmail letter to Grayson using the Greenwell family crest as a signature. Judging from the file, the family didn't have any other relatives anywhere near Santa Barbara, so it ruled out those as well. He was starting to wonder whether he should start suspecting other knights as well, since he was running dangerously low on the amount of people to be suspicious of.

"Alright, you better sit tight, Spencer. Me and O'Hara are going to go investigate your lead. And it better not be a waste of our time," Lassiter finally spoke up in his usual grumpy voice. He seemed to be determined to find another piece of evidence himself without the help of the psychic.

Shawn was actually rather surprised at Lassiter's statement, and he looked up from the file he had been perusing. "What? You're not kicking me off the case?"

Lassiter sighed and it looked like he had been hoping that Shawn wasn't going to ask that particular question. "The chief felt that, after recent developments, it would be more viable to keep you on this case. At least until one of your matches tomorrow. To see if the killer makes a move."

Shawn's mouth hung open at that, and couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Are you saying that even after _two_ murders, the Fair is _still_ going to continue?"

"The events coordinator was pretty adamant about having the festival continue, considering that the body had been found on the very outskirts of the grounds," Lassiter replied with a small nod. "To be honest though, I'm not sure how long we'll be able to keep these murders out of the media. So you better get up bright and early and hightail it to the Fair tomorrow, Spencer, because I want this case solved before I have to fill out more paperwork on each dead body I find."

Shawn could only nod mutely at that and watch as the two detectives left the room. There was another jab in the ribs by Gus in an effort to get them out of the room full of bodies, fast. They said a quick goodbye to Woody, with a promise that they'd visit sometime soon (much to Gus's dismay). As they made their way back to the car, Shawn had to resist releasing a sigh to vent his frustration. He assumed he had three choices to go about this.

One, he could overcome his internal debate and go to the Fair anyway, and probably die.

Two, he could tell the detectives of his dilemma, and probably die.

And three, he could do neither and just spend all day in bed tomorrow, ignoring his responsibilities as a police consultant but sparing his life in the process.

There was only one way to narrow down these choices, and even though he didn't really like the option, he knew it would be for the better.

He was going to have to talk to his father.


	9. Chapter 9

-Chapter 9-

Lassiter pulled up in front of the Renaissance Fair again, taking a moment to glare at the gates like he did just not a few days ago. Two people already murdered and the place still seemed as lively as ever. He would've actually preferred the onslaught of petty crimes over the case they working now. Anything for an excuse not to visit the hellhole that was currently causing him trouble. Spencer better had been right, because he wasn't the only one who wanted this case over with.

At Juliet's advisement, Carlton did not arrive in his usual suit getup like last time. Wearing a simple button down long-sleeve shirt and slacks, he stepped out of his car and tried to suppress the grimace that threatened to appear on his face. Juliet, getting out of the passenger's side, threw him another look that clearly said he should just get over it. She knew that he hated the place, but she hoped he'd swallow his malice and do his job like they were supposed to. She seemed fairly confident that they'd find some type of evidence that could affect their progress.

As they made their way through the gates and toward the armory near the jousting stadium, Lassiter decided to talk to Juliet so he wouldn't be tempted to criticize the people in costumes around them. He was rather curious anyway. "O'Hara, you never told me anything about your interrogation with Santanova. Did you find anything useful?"

Juliet looked surprised for a minute, and then she just frowned. She had to admit that the decision to interrogate the knight had been a spur of the moment idea, dredged from her discontent about Shawn's safety. It could be safely said by her expression that she didn't get anything out of the jouster. "Hmph, no. He was rather cooperative for having such a… dynamic outward appearance. I even checked after we found the body this morning. He has a solid alibi for the past two days."

"Tch…" Lassiter muttered, making no effort to hide his disapproval at Juliet's response. Of course it wasn't going to be that easy. Taking one look at that Nova character sent off the wrong vibes. He assumed it stemmed from his apparent anger management issues, but other than that, he wasn't a criminal. Just a lowly working class man who spent two weeks out of the year slamming a stick in other people's faces. Carlton could also see how that could be therapeutic for a man like him, just like how spending a day at the shooting range could relieve a weeks' worth of stress for himself. He mentally reminded himself that he was going to have to spend two whole vacation days at the shooting range just to relieve the stress this place was giving him.

As they approached their destination, Carlton sidestepped the temporary chain line that blocked the entrance. It appeared that they didn't have a replacement for Greenwell so they closed the armory to prevent curious tourists from getting in. Pushing open the door, he walked in cautiously, the room full of weapons looking oddly creepy when no light was on to showcase them. Walking in enough to let Juliet through, his face contorted as he caught a scent in the air.

"Do you smell that?" his partner asked in a similar reaction, covering her nose with one hand.

"Yeah. Bleach. A lot of it," Lassiter replied, taking out a flashlight and turning it on. He wasn't in the mood to go to the electricians of the fair and ask them to turn the lights on for their work. It would probably make things much easier, but he didn't even know who to talk to, and there was nothing that would propel him to ask. He guided the light along the floor to find the probable cause or use of such an amount of cleaning detergent, and stopped on a fairly large stain near the back. It wasn't very distinguishable compared to the rest of the color of the floor boards, but Lassiter's detective eyes could tell.

"Over here, O'Hara," the head detective announced, drawing his partner from the stacks of weapons to where he was crouched on the floor. The bleach scent was the most strong around this area and Juliet had to once again put a hand over her nose to block it out. Directing the light from the (probable) pool of blood, he saw that there were smear marks on the floor heading toward the door. He stood up and followed it until he was back at the door, where the tracks promptly disappeared.

Damn it. Spencer had been right.

Driving that aggravating thought from his mind, he turned back to Juliet, and was about to say something until she spoke first. "Carlton, it doesn't look like any of these weapons are missing," she said, looking through the racks of daggers and swords that were neatly placed between each other in order to make them look better for any consumer to buy. She was right though. As Carlton walked back toward her, he noticed that most of the weapons hadn't been moved from their places on the shelves and most of them looked like they hadn't been disturbed in a while.

"Well, it doesn't look like any of these weapons are even remotely sharp enough to cause any real damage," Lassiter observed, running a hand over the blunt edge of one of the rapiers nearby. Not even a small cut as a result. They probably kept the weapons blunted to keep possible buyers from hurting themselves. "The dagger most likely came from the killer's own collection."

Juliet nodded in agreement while Lassiter paced the blood trail again, running a hand over his chin as he thought about how best to approach this new development. "O'Hara, go ahead and call forensics down here. I want this area gone over with a fine-tooth comb. If possible, I want a sample of that blood taken to the crime lab ASAP to verify that it is, in fact, Greenwell," he ordered, speaking rapidly and once more showing his eagerness to get this solved as quickly as possible.

While Juliet headed toward the front of the establishment to make the call, Lassiter continued his investigation around the armory, harboring a secret hope that he would find something that would lead them directly to their killer. Moving in between the racks of weapons, he stopped when something caught his attention.

He heard a faint squeak of a floorboard.

In his experience, he knew it was a mistake to underestimate the value of a faint squeak in a murder investigation, especially in a dark room such as this. Juliet was still up at the front, and Lassiter was pretty sure he had heard it toward the back. Face set in determination; he withdrew his gun from its holster, relishing the feel of power it always gave him.

Guiding his aim carefully with his flashlight, he slowly crept toward the back of the building, letting the beam pass along the back wall slowly. So far, there was nothing, and he was beginning to wonder whether he had imagined the sound. Then, something happened that caught him off guard.

"Weaver?" a raspy voice asked from within the darkness, originating from an area behind one of the internal walls that Lassiter couldn't see in his periphery.

Lassiter furrowed his brows, but didn't answer right away. From what he could remember, Weaver was one of the recruits just added to the jousting team. What would he be doing here, in a closed off section of the Fair? How did this person get into the armory in the first place? Had he been there the whole time?

As the questions rolled off in his head, he decided it would be better if he had whoever was in hiding answer them. Raising his Glock to eye level, he spoke cautiously and kept an eye out for whoever would come from behind that wall. "This is the SBPD, come out with your hands up and you will not be harmed."

A long silence followed his announcement, and he took a few steps forward to see if he could get a glimpse of whoever had spoken. All he got were a few over-incumbent vases that further blocked his view of his target. It didn't look like the person who was hiding had much to share, but he decided he was going to give the man one more chance.

"Sir…"

There was a flash of movement, and his flashlight beam flashed over something bright and metallic, temporarily blinding the detective, and giving the perpetrator time to sprint out from behind the wall. Just when Lassiter was about to aim his gun and shoot, the armored man slammed into him with his shoulder and sent him sprawling into one of the racks of weapons, grimacing as several of the blunted-edged swords dug into his back. Screw whatever he said earlier, these things hurt like _hell_.

"O'Hara!" he shouted while quickly trying to get up from amongst the arsenal of weapons, hoping to catch her attention so the man couldn't get away.

Drawn to the noise of metallic objects hitting the wood floor, Juliet quickly whirled around to find a giant, fully-armored person lumbering straight toward her. No time to take out her gun, she quickly sidestepped out of the way to avoid getting smashed into the wall. Unfortunately, though, instead of turning around to face her, the assailant continued onward and slammed the door open, escaping right out into the crowd of tourists. Carlton could swear he had heard a small yelp of pain come from behind the door, as if someone had been behind it the whole time and had just become the victim to a door to the face.

Cursing, Lassiter finally freed himself from the mess and ran toward the entrance and out into the open, Juliet following close behind. Taking a moment to look down at the victim, he frowned when he recognized it as Weaver, the jouster. It looked like his nose was broken, and there was blood streaming down his front as a result. There was no time to criticize the youth, so he nodded to Juliet, who understood perfectly.

As Juliet moved to aid the knight, and possibly subdue him, Lassiter went back to his search for the armored man. It was rather difficult, seeing as how he had disappeared into a crowd full of people in costumes. In the distance, though, he spotted him turning into the double doors that led to the jousting stadium. With no hesitation, he sprinted through the crowd, pushing people out of the way and feeling no remorse for the complaints the followed. Finally, he was able to reach the stadium and he pulled open the double doors swiftly, running into the pitch. The perpetrator was halfway across the field now, and Lassiter could see where he was headed.

The stables.

Resisting the urge to utter another string of profanities, he quickly followed suit, raising his gun in the midst of his pursuit and shouting out to the man, "Freeze! SBPD!" There was no response, and, if anything, it made him run that much faster. Deciding he was being forced into this situation, Lassiter took aim and fired several shots at the man. One missed and the other two glanced off his armor, the force of the bullet over such a long distance not being enough to penetrate it.

Nevertheless, it was enough to catch him off guard, and in an attempt to protect himself from further onslaught, he dove behind one of the larger fence posts. This gave ample time for Lassiter to catch up from across the field. As he neared, though, he slowed to a steady pace and kept his eye on the figure behind the post. He was done giving orders, and if the man didn't surrender now, he wouldn't have a problem putting him down for good.

In his eagerness to apprehend the suspect, though, he took one step too close, and the man whirled around as he did so, this time wielding two rapiers the size of Carlton's entire arm. The head detective only had time to register his 'are-you-freaking-kidding-me' face before he opened fire on the assailant. This time, the bullet lodged itself into the less-armored part of the man's arm and hopefully incapacitating him.

This knight seemed determined, though, and continued his charge, only dropping one of the swords as a result. He raised his fist and slammed it into Lassiter's outstretched arm in retaliation, making him drop his gun. Wincing, Lassiter rolled to the side just in time to avoid a swipe downwards from the rapier.

Lassiter took several steps back as the armored man turned toward him again, his mind finally registering that he wasn't in a particularly good situation right now. Facing a literal behemoth, with his gun several feet away from him, and only a few courses from the academy on close quarters combat under his belt, it definitely wasn't something he had been expecting when coming to the Fair today. He gave a cursory glance around his surroundings and his eyes fell on the sword the man dropped earlier.

Oh god, no. No, no, no.

It didn't seem like he had much of a choice though, because the behemoth had started charging again, leaving him little time to make a decision. Releasing an aggravated sigh to vent his frustration, Lassiter dived to the ground and took hold of the blade, brandishing it upward and around just in time to block the strike that had been aiming for his head. The weapon felt awkward and heavy in his hand, and it seemed to only enforce his idea that certain things should not be toyed around with.

Taking another several steps back after his recent avoidance with death, Lassiter took hold of the sword with both hands in a defensive stance. He knew it must've looked odd, with a casual-dressed detective wielding a blade almost as big as he was against a fully armored man (and possible murderer) twice his size. He really didn't have time to think about what it looked like at the moment, though, and braced himself as his opponent charged once more.

Grounding himself, Lassiter raised the blade again and blocked another blow intended for his chest. The force of the strike knocked him off balance, though, and before he could recover, another fist crashed into his cheek and he was knocked back several feet to the side. Another blow struck his abdomen, knocking the breath briefly out of him. He was fairly sure another one was coming, so in an effort to protect himself, Lassiter thrust the hilt of his blade upwards and it slammed into the man's chin, driving him back away from the detective.

The metallic taste of blood assaulted Lassiter's senses and he spit out the some of it that had culminated in his mouth after the massive punch. Trying to ignore the pain that still emanated from his cheek and midsection from the blows, he decided he should take advantage at this point. His own retaliatory hit had almost knocked off the man's helmet, and he was busy trying to right it so his face wouldn't be seen by the cop.

Throwing another glance to his gun, which was still lying helplessly behind the man, Lassiter decided to take a chance and go for it. Sprinting around in a wide arc to avoid possibly being attacked with a sword, he zeroed in on his weapon, and even had his arm outstretched to grab it.

His effort was at a loss when he was tackled to the ground by the perpetrator like a raging bull. Lassiter smashed into the rough dirt shoulder-first, and grunted involuntarily as the massive weight of the armored man weighed in on him. They must have slid several feet in the dirt before coming to a stop. The detective pushed with all his might against the weight, but stopped when he saw the familiar glint of metal. The man had shifted, and now was pointing Lassiter's own gun at his chest. Carlton couldn't move either of his arms. One was pinned underneath him, and one was still being held by the behemoth's other hand.

As he watched the man's finger hover over the trigger, Lassiter's eyes narrowed as his adversary finally chose to speak.

"Goodbye, detective."

A shot rang out and echoed through the stadium.

Lassiter expected to feel the pain that was usually associated with a gunshot wound, but none came. He tried replay what had happened right in front of him, because it seemed to have gone by too fast to register. He had heard the shot, but it didn't come from his gun. It was from farther away, and he watched with a sort of detached awe as the gun was knocked right out of man's hands by a single bullet.

Immediately, Lassiter's head swiveled to the side and he was overcome with relief when he saw his partner running across the field with a cadre of police officers following her. The man above him cursed fluently and gave up on his previous venture to kill the cop. Instead, he pushed the detective out of the way and made a run for the stables, kicking the gun out of Lassiter's reach in the process so he wouldn't be able to shoot while he was fleeing. It didn't stop him from trying though, and as soon as he was free, he jumped up and dove for his weapon, intent on stopping his attacker from getting away.

He grabbed it just as the man was mounting one of the horses, and shot, with shaky aim, until the chamber was empty. None of them hit their target, and he had to watch as the killer galloped at full speed away from him. He could've sworn he saw the man look back and wave as he did so, and that only served to infuriate him further. Slowly getting up from his supine position, he groaned as he finally started to feel the aftereffects of the little brawl.

"Carlton!" Juliet shouted as she approached, slowing down long enough to catch her breath after such a long sprint. Running in heels was definitely not a good idea. She snapped her fingers to the police officers behind her and pointed in the direction in which the assailant escaped, and the quickly took off in that direction, leaving the two partners together.

"Are you alright?" she asked worriedly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"M'fine, O'Hara," Lassiter grunted, but Juliet could already tell he was full of it. She ran a hand over his injured shoulder, and winced at what she felt there.

"It looks like it's dislocated. Hold still," she commanded, and her partner obliged, looking like he was too worn out to argue. Juliet place one hand on his back and the other on his injured shoulder. Without warning, she yanked back with sudden force and reset it back into the joint. Carlton didn't make a sound, but she could tell from his gritted teeth that he had been holding it in.

"Thanks," he said genuinely, looking at Juliet with a sincere grateful expression, both for the shoulder and the saving of his life. For Juliet, that was enough. After that though, Lassiter seemed to already be back to business. "I need to speak to Weaver."

Juliet knew that look. The effects of guilt already starting to set in, the head detective would be determined to find new evidence to crack the case, since letting a criminal get away was a huge blow to any cop on the job. If anyone else came to harm because Lassiter hadn't been able to catch him in time, she knew he would blame himself.

Although suggesting a hospital visit would usually be the norm for a situation like this, Juliet knew it would be a waste of time with Carlton. "I already spoke to him," she said, deciding to let him continue his investigation and hopefully let him find that break he was looking for.

"What did he say?"

"He said he had been planning on meeting someone there. Someone called Zack Lancaster."

"Who the hell is that?"

"From what Weaver told me, he's the guy who announces the knight's names at the jousting tournaments."

Well, that was an interesting turn of events. Lassiter frowned as he tried to think of how or why this person would be involved with the killings. "Did Weaver say why he was meeting him?" he asked.

Juliet shook her head. "He just said that he had been contacted by Zack a few hours ago and told to meet him at the armory around this time. He didn't say the reason why. I sent him back to the station in case you wanted to question him more."

Lassiter sighed, and then nodded. "Alright, let's head back."

As they were heading back toward the exit, Lassiter looked at his partner in a new light, particularly after she had taken that shot at such a long range. He had had no idea of Juliet's previous experience with shooting people in the hand, but he decided she should still be commended.

"Oh yeah, and nice shooting, detective."

Juliet just smiled.


	10. Chapter 10

-Chapter 10-

Shawn decided that whenever he felt like crap, the perfect remedy was to always go for a ride on his bike. He wasn't exactly sure how he had forgotten the feel of the wind in his face or the steady hum of the engine below him, but he was certainly going to remember it from then on. Perhaps the just the steady routine of riding his bike constantly made him lose focus on why he loved having one anyway, and all it really took a great amount of stress to bring back that feeling of freedom.

Gus had dropped him off at his apartment after their visit to the morgue, mumbling some nonsense about having to finish his route. Shawn could take an educated guess though, judging by the look that had been on his friend's face, that he was actually making his way home to take some anti-nausea medicine and sleep for the rest of the day.

It was something himself wouldn't have minded doing, but he once again resisted the urge. He had to solve this case before someone else got hurt, and put an end to the endless anxiety that had been plaguing him for the last twenty-four hours.

After taking the long way to his destination, intentionally, Shawn finally pulled in to the driveway, letting his bike idle there for a second as he thought about what he was going to tell his father about the case. There was no need to tell him about what had happened last night, because he knew what that particular conversation would end up in. No, he would just mention the essentials and hopefully his dad would be able to point out something he missed. He seemed to have a knack for that, and not always pertaining to the cases.

Finally turning off the engine, he turned and withdrew a few folders from one the side compartments that held all the necessary information, before swinging his leg over and heading toward the house. Just as he was about to knock on the door, it opened, presenting a not-so-surprised Henry in one of his usual bright colored shirts. They looked at each other for a minute, as if measuring each other up, before Shawn relented.

"Hey, dad."

"I was wondering when you were going to come in," he said, giving him one of those half-smirks before turning and heading back into the house, leaving the door open so Shawn could walk in.

Shawn sighed and entered, closing the door behind him and following his father into the kitchen, where he could hear the sound of burgers sizzling. Dropping the files on the table, he looked at Henry and then at the stove like there was some kind of connection that he couldn't understand.

"Since when do you cook _inside_ the house?"

"Damn ignition on the grill won't spark, I have to go to the hardware store tomorrow and buy a new one," Henry replied, flipping one of the burgers expertly and then heading toward the refrigerator, pulling out two beers. After tossing one to Shawn, he took a seat at the table and pulled the folders toward him, leafing through the pages like it was the most routine thing in the world.

Shawn could admit that he was proud of the fact that their relationship had improved to the point where his father would know exactly why he would choose to visit him on an evening such as this. It saved him the trouble of having to beg for some case advice and possibly a life lesson or two. Granted, the free food was also a welcome motivator, but he'd like to think of it as more of a side bonus.

Shawn took a seat at the table, and popped open his bottle, taking a swig before he decided to get right into it. "A jouster at the local Renaissance Fair, Mitchell Williams, was killed during a match about two days ago. Apparently he was the victim of a lance that was tampered with. Some kind of spring mechanism was inside it."

Henry raised his eyebrows curiously, shuffling through the pages until he found the knight's coroner's report. "So, naturally, they arrested the man that wielded the lance, am I right?" he asked while going through the cause of death.

"Yeah, but I know they've got the wrong man. I've just got to prove it."

Henry looked up from the papers at his son, wearing an expression that Shawn was all too familiar with.

"Is that right?"

"Don't give me that look. I know what I'm doing here," Shawn replied defensively before he could stop himself. He quickly shook his head. He couldn't get in a fight right now. He just needed to get some advice, and it wouldn't help if he sparked an argument this early into their conversation.

Henry threw his hands up in the air in mock surrender. It didn't look like he was in the mood to argue either. "Hey, I'm just making sure you know what you're doing. Have you even met the guy? This… MacIntyre? How do you even know he's not the killer?"

_Because I was threatened by the real murderer no less than a day ago, dad._

Shawn almost said the words out loud, but he stopped himself by taking another drink of his beer. It was awfully inviting. It was a big thing to keep to himself, and the temptation to spill the beans and at least get some of the weight off of his shoulders was a little overwhelming. He had had the same internal battle before when he was trying to decide whether he should tell Gus.

"I just know, okay?"

Henry looked at him for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders, turning his attention back toward the papers. "Alright." He paused. "Did you find out a motive?"

Glad for his father's patience with him today, Shawn leaned back and shrugged his shoulders. ""Sort of. I mean, the guy was pretty much despised by every one of the staff, which would've left us with a ton of suspects to go through. But, we figured out later on that the killer was targeting the people on the jousting team with more tampered lances."

Henry got back up from the table to check on the burgers again, occasionally flipping one as he glanced back at Shawn. "Oh? And how did you figure that out?"

Shawn hesitated. "I... well, I'm kind of working undercover as a knight there."

His father stopped in his process to flip another burger and turned fully to him, wielding his spatula like a beating stick. Shawn instinctively cringed back, knowing to be cautious of Henry when he was in a scolding mood with a kitchen utensil. He learned that with the whisk. "Let me get this straight. You willingly volunteered to go undercover at a Renaissance Fair where one of the knights just died and the killer could possibly be targeting you next? Why would you think I would be okay with this?"

"Oh, come on, dad. I'll be fine. Jules and Lassie are pretty much with me all the time, and they already removed all the lances that were tampered with so there's really not all that much to worry about," Shawn said in an attempt to calm him down, although most of what he said didn't reflect at all how he felt about the case.

"Shawn, I don't think I can help you with a case that could potentially get you killed."

"That's basically every _week_. Besides, the killer hasn't even made a move yet. Well, there is Greenwell, but she's not even a knight..."

"Greenwell? Who's that?" Henry asked as he approached the table again. Shawn sifted through the papers once more and pulled up Greenwell's file, along with the coroner's report, handing it to his father. Henry looked through it with his grumpy expression and until he saw the picture of the murder weapon – the dagger used to kill the victim.

"I've seen this before," he said, taking the picture and putting it up in front of his face as he examined the details of it.

It was a rather old-looking dagger; something that you would usually see in a museum of some kind. It had a jeweled handle and a type of curve at the end, which obviously caused the necessary damage to kill. Now that Shawn thought about it though, it was rather odd that someone use an antique dagger like that to murder someone, unless they had a specific reason to.

"How have you seen that before?" Shawn asked with a confused look, switching glances from the photo to his father.

"Just a minute," Henry said, putting the photo down and heading into the living room. A moment later he came back with a pile of old newspapers. He set them down on the table and started going through them as if looking for a particular article.

"You still read the newspaper? Dad, there's a thing called the internet. You're going to have to update that piece of junk computer sometime-"

"Shhh!" Henry quieted him, holding up one finger as he pulled out a newspaper dated a few days ago. He took it and flipped through the more interesting articles, straight to the advertisement page. Shawn leaned in as his father stopped; scanning the paper to see what he was trying to show him. His eyes caught the advertisement just as Henry pointed to it.

Shawn picked up the page, his eyes widening as he saw a picture of a dagger almost identical to the one of the murder weapon. He quickly read the description.

_Authentic Persian Bichaq Bukhara Dagger circa 18__th__ cent._

_Part of a rare set…_

He paused when he actually read the price of the piece of steel. He had to stop his mouth from dropping down in shock. "Three thousand bucks for a dagger? Are you kidding me?" Then he stopped when his eyes wandered down to the bottom of the advertisement, where it listed the name of the seller.

Nathaniel Grayson.

Shawn didn't stop his chin from dropping down in shock this time as some parts of the puzzle started to click into the place.

_Give me what I want or I'll go to authorities. -GNWL_

_I won't hesitate spilling your blood all over Grayson's front door. He's due for a warning anyway._

So that was what the murderer was blackmailing Grayson about. Grayson was stealing antique weaponry from the Fair and selling them for a profit. Although it still didn't explain what the killer was blackmailing him for, or the reason why he killed those two people in the first place. Nevertheless, it was still progress. Progress that Shawn desperately needed.

He was about to turn to his father to thank him until his phone rang. Holding up a finger for pause, he quickly accepted it while Henry went back to the burgers, which were likely done by now.

"What d'you got for me, Jules?" Shawn immediately asked upon picking up, having read the caller id.

"Hey, Shawn. I was just calling to tell you that your armory sense was spot on. We got forensics down here testing the blood as we speak," she said rather quickly, as if she was in a hurry. Shawn could hear some muffled cursing in the background, which he assumed was Lassiter. There was most likely something Juliet wasn't telling him, but he decided not to address it.

"Sweet. Is there anything else?"

"Yes, actually. A name came up while we were questioning one of the knights. Someone called Zack Lancaster. He's an announcer here at the fair. Getting any vibes from him?"

Shawn searched his memory to see if he could recollect anything relating to the name, but came up with nothing. "No, sorry. Not this time."

"That's alright. We're on the search for him now, but it's likely we won't see him until your jousting match tomorrow, so we'll get him then."

"Oh, yeah. Right," Shawn said after a short pause, suddenly being reminded that there was more than one reason why he had come to his father's house in the first place. "Alright, I'll call you when I have something new. See ya, Jules."

"Bye, Shawn."

It was only a quick update, but Shawn wished the conversation had been a bit longer. He had only just hung up when Henry set a plate down in front of him. Looking down at the burger, it suddenly didn't seem as appetizing as it did before. It probably had something to do with the fact that he had no idea how his father was going to convince him to go to the fair tomorrow when he obviously didn't support the idea in the first place. Sighing, he took a seat and pulled that plate toward him.

While they ate, Shawn filled in some of the blank spots on the case to his father, but besides some minor comments, there really wasn't much else to be found beyond the blackmailing issue. He once again struggled with the decision whether or not to tell his father everything. He came up with a question completely out of blue as a result, and he couldn't stop himself from asking it.

"Dad… did you ever get… threatened when you were on the job?" he asked.

_Good job, there, Shawn._ He mentally berated himself. _Like that won't set off warning bells._

Henry looked at him oddly after his question, but instead of asking for the reason behind it, he went ahead and answered. "Shawn, I was a cop. Do you really think I went my whole career without taking a few risks? My life was pretty much on the line every time I was on the street," he said, frowning a bit as he caught his son's forlorn expression. "Now what's all this about?"

"It's, ah… it's nothing," Shawn said sheepishly, once again backing out on his idea about telling his father about his attack. He reached forward to grab his beer and take another drink, when suddenly his father took hold of his arm.

"Hey, dad! What…" he started to protest, until Henry pulled down his jacket sleeve, revealing the bandage he had wrapped around his bruised wrist from the other night to prevent further injury. There was a sharp intake of breath from both Spencer men when they saw it.

"Oh, so I guess that's 'nothing' then, is it?" Henry asked with his signature stern look.

Shawn quickly shrugged off the hand and grabbed his beer, pushing away from the table and walking across the kitchen to lean against the counter, just so he wouldn't have to face his father's criticism straight on. Cursing himself for not hiding the injury better, he was having a hard time thinking about what he was going to say to cover it up, which was very difficult when it came to his father. "This is just something I got from jousting practice the other day," he settled on saying.

As always, Henry 'Human Lie Detector' Spencer saw right through his act. All he had to do was cross his arms to tell that he didn't believe one word of what his son was saying. "Don't feed me that crap. What happened?"

Shawn just shook his head and refused to speak, deciding that it'd be better to just keep quiet and worm his way out of this situation some other way. At least by not admitting it he wouldn't be confessing that he had actually come here for more than advice on a case. He still wasn't sure why this was giving him such a hard time in the first place. Henry just sighed and got up from the table as well. Judging by his expression, he could already tell from Shawn's hints what had happened, even if it was a little rough.

Henry sighed and pushed away from the table as well, turning to look at him with his calculating gaze. Shawn decided to brace himself for what he was about to say.

"Do you really want to solve this case?"

Blinking in surprise, Shawn looked up at his father to see if he had heard him right. He had been expecting an all out scolding and demanding to not return to the fair, so hearing that question really caught him off guard. He waited a few moments to check if his father was kidding, but when he said nothing, he nodded his head to reiterate his intention to solve the case.

"Then go," Henry said, turning away from him and starting to clear the table of empty plates.

Shawn just stood there for a moment, watching him. "What?" he finally asked, not sure what else to say.

"Shawn, I'm not sure what you expect me to say. If you came here to hear some twisted diatribe about how I won't let you go to that fair, you're out of luck, kid, because you I'm not here to make your decisions for you. If you want to solve the case, then solve damn case," he said in his clear tone, taking the plates and putting them in the sink before starting to scrub them off.

For someone like Henry, that was usually the cue that indicated you were dismissed. Shawn still stood rooted to the spot, trying to figure out what exactly his father was trying to tell him. His response was totally unexpected, but in another way, he could see how it made sense. He always came to him for case advice, but this time, he realized he came for something else. So focused on whether or not he should risk his life by going to that fair, he had been hoping that one of his father's many criticisms would tell him what to do.

In the end, though, it was really just that small incentive. Either he wanted to finish and solve the case, or didn't. In this situation, he could safely assume that he did, since he hadn't yet given up and was still investigating despite the threat. He couldn't believe it took one sentence for him to realize that. He had solved many cases before now that were a much bigger risk, this one should be no different.

Shawn looked at Henry, who was still scrubbing the dishes, the just nodded, certain that his father could see it out of the corner of his eye. He walked back to the table and picked up the files before heading over to the door and opening it.

"Shawn."

He paused, looking over his shoulder at Henry, who had stopped his washing and was looking at his son with a frown.

"Be careful."

"Always am," Shawn said with a grin, hoping to instill at least some confidence in his old man, as well as himself, before exiting the house and heading toward his bike.


End file.
